The Dolls

1


When I open my eyes and blink into the milky morning sunlight, there’s no longer snow on the ground outside the car. Instead of the brown-gray tableau of a New York winter, endless cypress trees line the road, their branches heavy with Spanish moss and their green leaves catching the first rays of dawn.

As I struggle upright from a deep slouch in the passenger seat, it takes me a second to remember exactly where we are: Louisiana—or en route to Louisiana, anyhow. I’d fallen asleep just before midnight some eight hundred miles into our drive. Now, just after six a.m., thick white fog swirls around us, making it seem like we’ve been swallowed whole by a silent, drooping forest.

“Good morning,” I croak, unwinding a tangle of red hair from my watchband.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Aunt Bea replies without turning. She’s focused intently on the road ahead as if expecting cross traffic, though the woods appear entirely deserted. “Did you sleep okay?”

I glance at my watch. “I guess I did,” I say. “How are you feeling?” She’s been awake for at least a day, running on coffee and Red Bull.

“I’m hanging in,” Aunt Bea says, her face taut with exhaustion. “We’ll be there soon.”

“Cool.” I try to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. I still don’t understand why we’re doing this.

Three days ago, my life was normal: winter break was almost over, and I was getting ready to celebrate my birthday and start the second semester of junior year. Then Aunt Bea—my legal guardian since I was three—announced over coffee and Cheerios that we were moving back to Carrefour, Louisiana, the town we left fourteen years ago right after my mom killed herself.

“I miss Brooklyn already,” I murmur as I look out the window again.

“Give Carrefour a chance, Eveny. Believe me when I say you’ll fit in fine.”

“You don’t know that.” The thing is, I’ve always felt a half step different from everyone else, more at home in gardens and with plants than with real people. Still, I managed to develop a small, tight-knit group of friends back in New York. Starting over feels daunting.

“Carrefour isn’t exactly new to you,” Aunt Bea says, reading my mind. “People will know who you are.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of: being the girl whose mom offed herself by driving into a tree.”

“Oh, Eveny,” Aunt Bea sighs, “no one’s going to judge you for that. If anything, they’ll feel bad for you.”

“I definitely don’t need anyone’s pity.” After all, my memories of my mom are all good ones—up until the day it all ended.

“You know, it’s okay to let people in,” Aunt Bea says after a pause. “Your mom being gone is still hard for me too. But you deserve to know who she really was. I think being in Carrefour, where people knew her, will be a good thing.”

She looks miserable, so I force a smile and say, “Moving back will be good for you too.”

Aunt Bea’s been dreaming for years about opening her own bakery, but in New York she could never afford to do it. In Carrefour, she’ll be leasing a kitchen space downtown and is already making plans to open within the next week and a half. As frustrated as I am about this move, it will be positive for her, at least. And that’s something.

I take a deep breath and add, “If you think this is the right thing, I’m on board.” I spend the next hour of the drive trying to convince myself the words are true.


It’s 8:46 in the morning and I’m texting with my best friend Meredith when Aunt Bea announces, in a voice that sounds oddly choked, that we’re almost there.

I look up in surprise as we approach an impenetrable-looking iron gate. On either side, as far as I can see, a stone wall ten feet tall extends into the swampy forest. Above the gate is a rusted sign that says Carrefour, Louisiana: Residents Only in swirling script.

“Residents only?” I ask. “How are we going to get in?”

“We’re residents, Eveny.” Aunt Bea shifts the car into park and steps out into the foggy morning. She rummages in her purse for a moment before pulling out an antique-looking bronze key. She inserts it into an ornate keyhole and hurries back to the car just as the gate begins to creak loudly open.

“What the . . . ?” I say, my voice trailing off as she gets in and begins driving through. I turn around and watch as the gate closes slowly behind us, its hinges squealing in protest. “What was that?”

“My key to Carrefour,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s passed down from generation to generation, and every family has one. It’s the only way in or out.”