Soldier Doll (2 page)

“We really need to get moving on these boxes.” Her mother gives them a hard look. “It's nearly two weeks, and we've made almost no progress. Of course, some people here ran off and went junk shopping when they were supposed to be helping out.”

Elizabeth and her dad exchange a guilty glance. Her father clears his throat. “Liz, try the chicken, really. It's not bad at all.”

Elizabeth shudders. “No, thanks. It looks like brains.”

“Brains!” Now her dad makes a face. “Thanks a lot.” He puts down his own chopsticks.

“Brains are a delicacy in France.” Her mom spears a piece of chicken and points it at her family.

“I'm really glad I live in Canada, then,” Elizabeth says. She pushes away her plate and eyes the bakery box on the counter, its telltale white string coming untied.
It won't be as good as The Sweet Shoppe
, she thinks, wondering where it's from. She pictures her fifteenth birthday cake: pink frosting with yellow flowers. The good kind of frosting, the sort that's almost crispy on the outside.

Her mom notices her staring at the box. “You'll be pleased to hear that the patient in question didn't recommend the cake.”

“Finally, some good news. Where'd you get it?”

“Actually, the grocery store. It's chocolate.”

“Chocolate's good. Is the icing chocolate or vanilla?”

“Vanilla. Does that matter?”

“Of course it matters. How could it not matter?”

Her father chimes in. “Isn't it my cake? What if I wanted lemon?”

“Dad, please. Lemon cake? What's wrong with you?”

“She has a point, John. Can someone pass the brains?”

“Mom!”

When it's time, her father says they shouldn't bother with candles on the cake. “Too many this year,” he jokes. “You'll have to call the fire department.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes again. Her dad has made the same joke every birthday for the past ten years. Possibly longer, she realizes, since her memory only goes back about that long.

“Nonsense,” her mom says. She's rummaging through a box labeled “kitchen—miscellaneous.”

“Here we go.” She sticks a candle into the cake. “Uh-oh. Anyone have a match?” Reflexively, she reaches for the cupboard over the sink, where they kept the matches in Vancouver.

Her father looks stumped. “I think we threw out the match jar while we were packing.”

“I might have some,” offers Elizabeth.

“You have matches? Why do you have matches?” Her mother turns to give her a penetrating stare.

“Sometimes I play with them. When I'm not smoking.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “It's for my scented candles. Remember my candles? All, like, twenty-seven of them?”

“Funny. Right. Candles.” Her mom gives her another look. “You're a real comedian.”

“It's a coping mechanism.”

Her dad looks up. “What do you mean, Liz?”

“It means that otherwise I'd focus on having no friends. Also, no life.”

“Ah, well in that case, I think you mean a defense mechanism.” Her mom licks some icing off her fingers.

“Whatever. What's the difference, anyway?”

“Don't they teach you anything in school?” her mother says.

“Not really. Wait. We did spend a lot of time learning about isotherms.”

Her dad shakes his head. “I think you mean isotopes.”

“I'm sure it was isotherms.”

“No, Liz. Isotopes. You're dad's right. Like in chemistry, when a molecule has two shapes or something.”

“Actually, Amanda, I think those are isomers.” Her dad looks delighted. It's not often he gets to prove her mother wrong. He drums his fingers happily on the table.

“You're both crazy.” Elizabeth pushes her chair back and stands up. “I haven't even taken chemistry. These have something to do with geography. Like in the tundra?”

“What is tundra again?” Her mother frowns.

“Near the Arctic. Like, in between where it's cold and really, really cold.” Elizabeth walks toward the door. “I'll go get the matches.”

Elizabeth hurries up the stairs. She'd found the matches yesterday, in the underwear box. She hadn't exactly been careful about what went in which box when packing. At the time, it didn't seem like a big deal: So what if she packed her hair products with her textbooks? Now, though, finding her belongings is like an ongoing scavenger hunt, only there are no clues. Worse, her history textbook is completely covered in mousse.

Matches in hand, she returns to the kitchen. “Liz, any idea why this was in a box marked
dishes
?” Her mother holds up a pair of lab goggles. Elizabeth has a vague memory of tossing them in after a particularly difficult ninth grade science lab involving hydrochloric acid. She hopes her mom plans on running the dishes through the dishwasher before serving food on them again.

“Sorry. Why is there a nine on Dad's cake?”

“It was the only candle I could find.”

“Wouldn't no candle be better?”

“Don't be ridiculous. This is a birthday cake.” Her mother takes a match and lights the nine-shaped candle, which is pink and cracked. The cake is iced white with green trim and blue roses, only the roses have melted slightly in the afternoon heat and now look more like blobs of finger paint.

“Dad?”

“I'm not arguing over this one, sweetie. I have to pick my battles.”

“Oh, right. The lamps.”

Her dad blows out his candle. Her mother uses a carving knife to slice the cake; she can't find the cake server.

“That looks scary, Mom.” Elizabeth nods at the knife, which cuts easily through the layers of cake and icing. “Freakish.”

“Just be glad I found it. Otherwise I would have had to use a box-cutter.”

“Gross.”

Elizabeth takes a large bite. “The icing is too creamy,” she says.

“Oh, well, sorry, Your Highness,” says her mom. “Should I take your piece, then?”

“Ha. You did name me after the queen, you know. And no, I'll keep it. It's better than starving.”

“All right, Princess. Do you have a gift for the King here?”

“Of course.” Elizabeth reaches under the table, where she's stowed her purse. She pulls out the little parcel and hands it to her father. “Happy ninth birthday, Dad.”

“This is wrapped so nicely, Liz,” he says. Thank you.”

“It's newspaper, Dad.”

“I know, but it's so neat.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “Just open it!”

He peels back the tape and carefully unwraps the paper, picking up the wooden soldier inside with both hands.

“Oh, Liz.” He turns it over, examining it. His hands are large, and the little doll looks tiny by comparison. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”

Her mom peers over his shoulder, interested. “Strange,” she says. “It looks like a baby doll, doesn't it? But it's been painted as a soldier.”

Elizabeth nods. “The woman at the yard sale called it a ‘soldier baby,'” she says.

Her mother shoots her a grateful look. “Thank you for picking something so small.”

“What happened to the lamps, Mom?”

“Boiler room.”

“Ah.”

Her dad shakes his head. “So unfair. They were such an interesting plaid,” he says. He looks down at the doll again. “Thank you, honey. I love it. I'll take it with me to Kabul. A good luck charm.”

“I thought the outfit looked a little like what you wore in the old pictures,” says Elizabeth shyly. “Before you switched to engineering.” Her dad had been a pilot before becoming an aeronautical engineer.

He smiles, remembering. “It does a bit, doesn't it?”

Her mother stares at the doll, frowning. Her father notices and clutches it protectively to his chest. “I'm not getting rid of it. This isn't junk, it's—”

“No, no.” Her mom shakes her head. “It just reminds me of something. But I can't remember what, exactly.”

“Really? You've seen something like this before?” He looks interested.

“No. Yes. I'm not sure.” She shakes her head again. “It feels like it's on the tip of my tongue.”

“Maybe there are lots of these,” suggests Elizabeth. “Was it a toy or something way back?”

“That's not it,” her mom says. She's still frowning.

“I'm sure it will come to you,” says her father. He pats her on the arm.

“I feel like I'm losing it.”

“Have you put your keys in the dishwasher or anything?”

“Huh?” Her parents both turn to look at Elizabeth.

“It was a joke. Sort of. I saw this thing on TV about Alzheimer's. It showed people in the early stages putting things in the wrong place. The example they gave was keys in the dishwasher.”

“I'm forty, not four hundred.” Her mom looks offended now. “You know, if I had said something like that to my mother, I would have been slapped.”

Her father laughs. “My dad used to threaten to drop me off at the orphanage.”

“Are there still orphanages?” asks Elizabeth, curious.

“Not in Canada. Now children have foster parents if there's no one to look after them.”

Her mother nods. “Doesn't have quite the same ring to it. If you're so unhappy here, maybe we should take you to live with a foster family!”

“My mom used to wash our mouths out with soap. How about you?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Her mother eyes Elizabeth.

“Don't even think about it.” Elizabeth stares back defiantly. “Do you want me to go live with a foster family?”

They're laughing now. Elizabeth watches her mother. She closes her eyes when she laughs. She closes them tight and scrunches up her nose and cheeks. It's not exactly flattering, but her good humor is infectious. When her mom laughs, people usually join in.

“Has it come to you?” Her dad turns to her mom. “About the doll?”

“No, not yet,” she says. She shakes her head again. “I'll let you know.”

“Thanks again, sweetie.” He leans over and gives Elizabeth a kiss on the cheek, quickly, so she doesn't have a chance to move away. “I really like it. Very thoughtful.”

“You're welcome, Dad.”

“My turn.” Her mom smiles. “It's outside.”

Elizabeth looks at her eagerly. “Is it a new car?”

“Sadly, no. But I think it will make your father very happy. Go look out the window to the backyard.”

The new kitchen opens to a large family room with a double set of glass French doors to the back deck. The three go over and stand, staring.

“What are we looking at, Mom?”

“Look at the far left corner.” She points.

It's a small shed that looks almost like a little barn. It's painted black and white with a bright red door, just like their new house.

“I had it delivered from Home Depot this morning.”

“Oh, Amanda. Thank you.” Her father presses his face against the glass to get a better look, and then turns back to his wife. “For my finds?”

“Yes. A junk shed. Since we don't have a garage here.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He puts his arm around her.

Elizabeth watches her parents and wonders how old you have to be to get excited over a shed as a birthday present. She hopes it's a long way away.

“You're welcome, Johnny.”

Johnny? Ugh
. Her parents are entwined now, like a pair of middle schoolers slow dancing in a school gym. They're kissing, too. They always get like this on special occasions.
Gross
. She looks away, embarrassed, then turns back to the kitchen. She sees the half-eaten cake out of the corner of her eye. It hasn't yet been put away.

Couldn't hurt to have another slice
, she reasons. Attacking it directly with a fork, she shaves some off one of the edges and takes a large bite.
Maybe the icing isn't so bad after all
. She scoops the remaining flowers off the top.

. . .

“Any plans for the weekend?”

Elizabeth looks up from her laptop.
Is he serious?
“I do, actually,” she says. Her voice is riddled with sarcasm. “I plan to buy myself a bag of barbecue chips. Then I plan to eat the whole bag.”

Her dad sighs. Elizabeth watches him. He's unpacking a box of utensils. He can tell she's upset, but the sarcasm is lost on him; he's too earnest. Looking uncertain, he holds up a potato masher. “Any idea where this goes?”

“That depends.” Elizabeth eyes it suspiciously. What is it?”

“It's for mashing potatoes.”

“Why do we have that?”

“What do you mean?” Her father looks confused.

“Has anyone here ever mashed potatoes?” Elizabeth goes back to typing. She ducks her head behind her laptop so her dad can't tell she's rolling her eyes.

“Your mother makes mashed potatoes all the time.”

“They come from a package, Dad.”

“Do they? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“They're so good though.”

“That's why we don't need a potato masher.”

“Right.” Her father looks around. “I'll just stick it in this drawer.”

Elizabeth sighs, exasperated. She stops typing again. “Throw it out!”

“I think it might have been a wedding present.” Her dad looks guiltily at the potato masher.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes again, this time not bothering to duck behind the screen. “You've been married for, like, fifty years. You can throw it out now.”

“Seventeen,” her father corrects her, looking affronted. “And what if it was from someone important?”

“Like who? The pope?”

“Funny. Like Granny?”

“Who do you think taught Mom about the instant potatoes?”

He puts the masher on the counter. “I'll let your mother deal with it,” he says. He sits down at the table next to Elizabeth. “I'm sorry about the weekend question. I guess that was stupid.”