Soldier Doll (6 page)

Ned
. Her heart picked up immediately as her body and mind entered into a familiar dialogue. Something must have happened. Ned would never
not
write her for such an extended period of time, no matter how hectic things became. She remembered that when the news had come about Tom, Mrs. Jeffries said she'd already known. That she'd been washing the floors and suddenly the lye smelled differently and there wasn't enough air to breathe, and she'd known her son was gone. Meg pictured Ned's face, the way his gray eyes changed colors depending on his mood or the weather.
Would I feel differently if something happened?
she wondered. She put her hands on her stomach again and closed her eyes, trying to see if she felt anything. She wanted to think she would feel it if he had died or was hurt or ill.

. . .

It was a Tuesday when she got the news. She knew it was a Tuesday because on Tuesdays she did the laundry, and she was hanging the clothes to dry when Mr. Roberts—Ned's father—appeared. His face was ashen. Her own father was close at his heels, eyes downcast. Meg felt the ground sway as she dropped a clothespin.

“Meg—” Mr. Roberts took off his hat and twisted it in his hands. She couldn't bring herself to look at him; with his kind gray eyes and wavy brown hair, Ned looked so like him. “Meg, please sit down. I'm afraid I—” his voice broke. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, distressed.

“Meg.” Her father came forward and took her firmly by the arm. He sat her down on a nearby wooden bench, taking her face in his hands. “My poor child.” He shook his head. He looked away as the tears came, running silently down his face.

“No.” Meg's voice was quiet. “No!” She looked, pleading, at Ned's father. “Please, Mr. Roberts.” Her hands shook as she brought them together in her lap. “Please tell me that you're not here to tell me…that. He is well? Perhaps just a bit ill again, or injured?” Her eyes searched his face, frantic for some sign of hope.

“I'm sorry, my girl.” He took a deep breath and regained some of his composure. “I am truly sorry. But our Ned, he's gone.” He patted her self-consciously on the forearm.

“Gone?”

“It was a hero's death.” Mr. Robert's voice was feeble. “He died rescuing another boy who'd been shot…” His voice trailed off.

“Thank you for telling me.” Meg stood up quickly, avoiding eye contact. “My condolences to you and Mrs. Roberts.” She needed to get away, to be alone with her pain. She felt selfish, but she didn't want to comfort Henry Roberts, to sacrifice her own tears on the altar of his loss. She didn't want to compare and wonder whose loss was greater. She turned hurriedly, tripping over the laundry pile. Reflexively, her hands flew to her stomach, and her eyes met Ned's father's as he looked sharply at her abdomen. His eyes widened.

“Meg, wait.” She could hear him beckoning her to come back, but feigned deafness. Instead, she ran. Her father shouted something, but she ignored him, too, and ran faster. The kitchen smelled of baking bread when she reached it, and it sickened her. It smelled sweeter than usual, almost like overripe fruit on the verge of decay. It penetrated her senses, and she retched. She wondered how long he had been gone, without her knowing. Was it days or weeks? A month? She retched again, stumbling to her bedroom.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when her father knocked on the door. “Meg?” He opened the door a crack. “I fetched you some tea.” He offered the steaming cup to his daughter, who stared at him blankly. “Tea.” he repeated. He looked awkward.

Meg blinked and nodded absently at him. “Thank you.” She took the cup and held it with both hands, but did not take a sip. She caught the familiar scent of fresh bread and felt again as if she might be sick.

“I am truly sorry.” He sat down at her desk chair. “Ned was a wonderful boy. I often thought of him as a son.” His voice choked slightly.

She said nothing, continuing to stare down at her teacup.

Mr. Merriweather reached behind him and pulled out a small box. “The Robertses, they felt you should have these,” he said, offering her the box. Meg set the teacup gently on the floor by the bed and took the box from her father. Was this all that was left of him? She opened it.

“His effects,” said her father. Inside were his watch, his cap, and a small parcel of her letters, tied neatly with a piece of old cloth. There was also a medal he had been awarded for his bravery, presented to his parents upon his death. Meg turned it over in her hands, disbelieving that this was all that was left of his life.

“Mr. and Mrs. Roberts should have these, really.” Meg took out his cap and stared at it.

“No, they felt these things belong to you,” said her father. “Henry, he was quite firm about it.”

Meg looked again at the objects in the box. Where was the little soldier doll? She shook the contents and checked again. It wasn't there. She wondered what had happened to it.

“Thank you, Father.” Meg folded her hands. “I must thank the Roberts's,” she said. Then, thinking of facing Ned's mother, her chest tightened.

Her father looked awkward again. “Meg,” he said. His face was red.

“Yes?”

“Is there—is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Meg put her hands on her stomach again. “I think you know,” she said in a dull voice.

“Oh, Meg.”

“We were handfast.” Her voice caught. “I'm sorry, Father. The shame—”

“Never mind that.” He put a firm hand on her shoulder. “You just take care of yourself now.”

“I'll have to tell Mr. and Mrs. Roberts.” Meg's eyes were closed, and she was bent forward slightly, breathing heavily as if she was having trouble getting enough air. Her voice betrayed a mixture of fear and grief.

“They'll be pleased, I think. It's not the same as it was. Not with the war.”

“I hope so.” It was hot in the cottage, but she was shivering. She wrapped her arms tightly around her midsection and tried to take a deep breath.

Her father stood. “I'll leave you now. I'm sure you want time to grieve alone.” He made for the door, but before opening it, he turned back to his daughter. “The pain…it does subside eventually. Somewhat.” His eyes clouded over.

Meg nodded, but didn't speak, watching as her father quietly closed the door.

Meg looked down at Ned's watch and cap. A tidal wave of grief swept over her, her breath catching as if she'd been knocked to the ground by it. She swam for air.

Her stomach heaved again. Meg grabbed a bowl from the desk and retched. Settling back down, she felt something else: something familiar and unwelcome. The cramps seized her unexpectedly. Meg gasped, and her arms flew protectively across her stomach. The feeling passed, and Meg exhaled, relieved. Tenderly, she stroked her abdomen. “Be well, little one,” she whispered softly.

Then it happened again.

The cramping was worse this time. Meg paced the small room until it passed, then collapsed at her desk. When she stood up, she noticed the blood. Just a little—she pretended not to see it, at first. Another wave of cramping overtook her, then more blood. An odd feeling, hot and damp between her legs. She let out a loud moan, hugging her legs together, as if willing the blood to stop.

“No. No, please,” she whispered. “Please, not this. Not now.”

She sank to the floor, dizzy. She watched the blood as it seeped slowly through her skirts, a red tide of despair.

“I won't even have my son now.” The words were a whisper. She thought of her initial worry over the shame of the pregnancy and felt as if she might suffocate, overwhelmed with bitterness and grief. She gasped again. “So much blood spilled,” she whispered. “Ned's, mine, the child's. Our child.” She pictured Ned, dead in the trenches, and then a baby with Ned's gray eyes, still and silent. “Never even had the chance to wake and see the world. Never felt the sun, never felt love.” Meg talked to herself quietly, her shoulders bent as if in prayer. Still, her eyes were dry as she stared down at her ruined skirts. She thought of the dreams she'd had for herself and Ned and the baby, silly childish fantasies that would remain that way forever, now.

When the tears finally came, Meg began to write.

Little soldier, just a boy

Wide-eyed wooden children's toy.

Innocent of ruin and war

Lost and gone, forevermore…

Chapter 4

Toronto, Canada

2007

“I thought so—I knew it, actually,” says her mother as she reaches for the pizza box.

Elizabeth watches her mother take another slice, her silver bracelet clinking against the watch her dad had bought her for her last birthday. She looks smug, the way someone does when they know something you don't, and they decide that rather than tell you what it is, they'd prefer to draw it out a bit, torture you. Her mother makes a habit of acting superior. Elizabeth wonders if she takes the same tactic with her patients: “You know, Mrs. Smith, you really should have listened to me about the foot cream, because now you—pause, smug look—have a fatal toenail fungus! I'm so sorry.” Elizabeth stares at the mix of sauce and grease forming a mustache on her mother's upper lip as she bites into her slice.

“I told you I thought the soldier doll might be important.” Her mom spins the box toward her. “More pizza?”

Elizabeth peers into the cardboard box. The grease has soaked through the bottom, leaving a fine slick of oil on the kitchen table. She looks away. “No, thanks.”

She's tired of take-out food, of cardboard boxes and foil-lined containers. Admitting this surprises her; she is sure that if two weeks ago someone had offered her the opportunity to eat fast food for an indefinite period, she'd have agreed readily to a happy future of pre-made sandwiches and stapled paper bags. But now, she's sick of prepared food. More than that, it's starting to disgust her. Right now, the stringy pizza cheese is about as appealing to her as a plateful of squirming eels.

“You did not.” Her father looks up in protest. He wipes his face with a paper napkin that says Subway, a souvenir from a previous meal. “All
you
said was that the doll reminded you of something, but you couldn't remember what.”

“I didn't. I said I thought the doll was important. Liz?”

“I'm on Dad's side here, Mom.” Elizabeth raises her eyebrows at her mother, irked. She picks off a mushroom from her pizza and examines it suspiciously.

“Why are you picking off the mushrooms?”

“They look funny.”

“How can mushrooms look funny?”

“They just do. Look at this one.” Elizabeth holds it between her thumb and forefinger, delicately, as if handling a ticking explosive. “It's all slimy.”

“Is that why you're handling it like it's radioactive?”

“Maybe that's what's wrong with it.” Elizabeth stabs it with a fork. “What was that place, where they had the nuclear meltdown?”

“Three Mile Island?” Her father looks up.

“No, the other one. The Russian one.”

“Oh, Chernobyl.” Amanda frowns at her daughter. “It was a huge tragedy.”

“I know. Do they export mushrooms?”

“Not funny. Do I need to tell you about the harmful effects of radiation on the body? About the children who got sick? About the—”

Elizabeth yawns. “Spare me the self-righteous indignation,” she says. Her tone is cutting. “You want to talk about harming children? Let's talk about eating fast food every day for two weeks! Haven't you heard about the childhood obesity epidemic? Take a hard look at that grease wheel, doctor,” she says, pointing at the pizza box.

Her mom deflates, guilty now; her shoulders slump slightly and her cheeks flush pink. Elizabeth knows her mother's weakness and how to exploit it—how she worries that she's a bad mom. She's overheard the conversations with her dad, grandma, and Aunt Elinor: the ruminations over her excessive work hours, the dearth of home-cooked meals, and the prevalence of dust bunnies around the house. Elizabeth feels a cruel sense of satisfaction as she watches her mother droop, like a flower at dusk. She gets the same feeling when she feigns exaggerated disappointment when her mother accidentally breaks the yolks of over-easy eggs.

Her mother is talking and gesturing, waving her hands as she does when she's nervous or guilty. “I know. It's terrible. It's just been impossible, getting everything unpacked and the new job and getting to the supermarket…”

“I'll cook tomorrow,” her father suggests, rescuing her. “Something on the barbecue. Chicken?”

“With vegetables?” Elizabeth looks hopeful.

“Good Lord, Amanda, she's asking for vegetables.” Her dad fans himself, as if he might faint with shock.

“That's how long it's been since I've had a well-balanced meal,” says Elizabeth flatly. “I'm afraid I'm going to die. Or get fat.”

“Stop it; you're making your mother feel bad. It's only been a little over a week.” Her dad gives her a reproving glance.

“I'm actually craving carrots. What does that say about your parenting?”

“Carrots?” Her mother laughs. “Can I get that on tape?”

“Here we go again with the tape.” Elizabeth snorts. “How's your gramophone?”

“It's a Dictaphone, smarty-pants. And I should start bringing it to dinner.” Her mother takes a large bite of pizza.

“Excellent idea,” her dad pipes up. “Then we could prove you never said anything about the soldier doll.”

Elizabeth pushes her plate away. The cheese on the pizza is cool now, congealed. It has turned hard and sticks stubbornly to parts of the plate. “What do you guys think about it? The doll, I mean. It's weird isn't it, that—”

The lights flicker, and a crash of thunder shakes the kitchen. The oppressive heat has finally given way to a violent thunderstorm, with rain whipping angrily on the doors and windows with a loud splattering sound, falling almost sideways, as if the house is under attack by an army brandishing water guns and garden hoses. Outside somewhere, wind chimes hit one another with force, sounding more like cymbals. Her mother shifts slightly in her seat.

“You okay, Mom? You don't have to be afraid of the thunder. Remember? It's just angels bowling.” Storms had frightened Elizabeth when she was small. They still did sometimes, if they were at night; the darkness unnerves her. She can still recall being woken by storms as a little girl and the terror she'd felt from the noise and the dark; the internal debate over whether to take the risk and make a run for her parents' room and the warmth and comfort of their more generous bed, or whether it might be safer to lie very still in her own bed, lest something—she was never sure what, exactly—catch her in transit. Her mother had always let her into their bed, had always sleepily pulled back the duvet and helped her crawl up. Remembering, Elizabeth feels a twinge of guilt for baiting her mother. Their eyes meet, and Elizabeth looks away first.

“Did I use that one? I'm surprised you even noticed thunder as a kid, what with your father's snoring shaking the entire house every night.” A smile creeps across her mother's face, and Elizabeth feels relieved.

Her father pouts. “I have an adenoid problem. And a deviated septum.”

“Ew, Dad! Don't use words like that.” Elizabeth looks away, embarrassed.

“What did I say?”

“Septum.” Elizabeth reddens.

Her mother gives her an odd look. “The septum is the cartilage dividing your nose.”

“Is it?” Elizabeth looks abashed. “Never mind, then.”

Elizabeth hastily steers the conversation back to the soldier doll. “Anyway, as I was saying—it's strange, isn't it? About the doll? Apparently the soldier doll from the poem has been missing for, like, a hundred years or something.”

Elizabeth had felt triumphant informing her parents about the poem. She likes the feeling of knowing something special they don't know, of having news. It was like bringing home a good report card or gossip, only even more interesting. She also mentioned Boris the enormous rabbit and the bookshop, though she left out Evan.

“I wonder if there's a way to know for sure?” Her mother looks thoughtful. She's drumming her fingers on the kitchen table. “Carbon dating or something like that.”

“Carbon dating?” Elizabeth looks puzzled. “What's that?”

Her dad pipes up. “It's a way of figuring out how old something is. It uses radioactive carbon isotopes.” He looks proud to know such detailed scientific information.

“Can we do it at home?” Elizabeth leans forward eagerly.

Her father laughs. “Afraid not. I might know someone who could help you, though.” He reaches for his mobile phone and pauses, setting it flat on the table, tapping on it slowly with his index fingers like a novice typist. Elizabeth smirks; she'd long ago given up suggesting he use his thumbs to text like any normal person. “Here it is. Madeleine McLeod.”

“That sounds familiar.” Her mother furrows her eyebrows.

“I met her at that conference in Seattle. Do you remember the one?”

“The time when you forgot to turn the stove off and left for the airport?” Her mother's eyebrows are raised, and she sounds like she's trying to suppress a laugh.

“No. That was San Diego. Will you ever stop bringing that up?” Her father casts his eyes to the ceiling and folds his arms across his chest, embarrassed.

“Probably not.” Her mom grins at him.

“Right.” He rolls his eyes at her. “Seattle was that conference I went to on artifacts and antiques.”

“The junk conference!” Her mother brightens. She reaches for a pizza crust and nibbles on it, looking thoughtful. “I remember now. Why do I know that name, though?”

“I contacted her once. About that butter dish.” Her father looks embarrassed again.

“Ah. The butter dish incident!” Her mother puts her pizza crust down. Her eyes meet her daughter's again, and they both grin. Elizabeth coughs into her sleeve; it's now her turn to make the effort not to laugh.

When she was in seventh grade, her dad had developed an obsession with the
Titanic
. It had been triggered by an episode of
Antiques on the Road
featuring a woman who'd found a menu from the legendary ship. She'd unearthed it from under a pile of junk at a local garage sale. As the audience oohed and aahed, John sat on the edge of his recliner, entranced by the spectacle of this woman's success—in contrast to his own regular disappointment—in hunting down valuable antiques. After that, her father had become convinced that there were
Titanic
memorabilia lurking in every flea market and yard sale on the West Coast.

“It was a huge ship,” he reasoned. “I should be able to find something.”

“John, it sank. As in, underwater.” Her mother would look at him, amused, and shake her head. “You're being irrational.”

But her dad refused to give up. “You're just being negative,” he would say stubbornly. And one day, he'd presented them with a silver-edged butter dish with the signature red-and-gold White Star Line logo on it. White Star Line was the company that had owned the famous ship. “There!” he'd gloated, placing the dish gently on the kitchen table as they crowded around. “Have a look at that!” Now, he blushes at the memory. “How was I supposed to know it was a fake?”

“John, you bought it on eBay from an anonymous seller. It didn't even look real.”

“It did so.”

“The logo washed away in the sink, hon. With water.”

“All right, maybe. She was really nice about it though. Dr. McLeod, I mean. When I took it her to be authenticated.”

“What does she do, Dad?” Elizabeth is finished her pizza. She is lining up her mushrooms in a neat little row, dragging them around her plate with her fork.

“She's an archeologist and historian. Twentieth century.” He reaches for the last slice of the pie and picks at the cheese. It strips off easily now, in a single sheet. He folds it into his mouth and discards the now-naked crust back into the empty box.

“So, you think she would know about the doll?” Elizabeth says.

“Possibly. It couldn't hurt to ask, anyway. Should I send her an e-mail?”

“Sure, Dad.” Elizabeth thinks of Evan. He hasn't been in touch with her yet on Facebook, but she hasn't checked in—she glances at the clock—two hours. She would check again soon. “Thanks.”

The lights flicker again and then go out. The screen of her father's phone projects a beam of light onto the ceiling from the center of the table, as if they are gathered around a virtual bonfire. Elizabeth waits for the lights to come back on. Nothing. “Now what?” She thinks of Facebook and Evan and sighs, annoyed at the fickleness of electricity.

“Is that ice cream you bought still in the freezer?” asks her mother.

“Yeah,” Elizabeth replies. She'd bought some earlier in the week. “Well, some of it. Why?”

“Well, we wouldn't want it to melt, would we?” Her mom is grinning pointedly.

“Your mother's right, Liz.” Her dad rubs his hands together in anticipation. “We don't like to waste food in this family.”

Elizabeth stands up. “Where did we put the bowls again?”

“Just grab three spoons, honey.” Her dad waves his hand dismissively.

“Seriously?” Elizabeth gapes at her father. He is not the spoon-in-the-ice-cream-tub kind of person.

“Why not?”

Elizabeth opens the freezer and finds a half-eaten container of pralines and cream in the relative blackness of the kitchen. She finds some spoons in a pile of unpacked silverware on the counter.

Elizabeth slides the spoons across the table and peels back the lid, intentionally swiping the underside with her fingers and licking them. “Me first,” she says, picking up her spoon and digging in.

. . .

“It's room 223.” Her father holds the stairwell door open for Elizabeth. “I think this is the second floor.”

Elizabeth looks around. She had expected the university building to be old and grand, with stone walls and archways and overgrown ivy. Turrets, possibly. But this building looks more like the hospital where she'd had her tonsils out back in the third grade. The walls are painted a sickly olive. The floors are linoleum, the kind that never looks entirely clean. It's hard to tell what color they might have been originally. Overhead, fluorescent lights hum.