The Dolls(7)

Now I have nothing to do but explore the house while the rain comes down in a steady, driving rhythm. I try to imagine my mom wandering through these same halls when she was my age, but I can only visualize her as she was when she died: twenty-eight years old, already worn down by life, the premature lines around her eyes suggesting the weight she must have felt on her shoulders before she killed herself.

I wander from room to room, trying to piece together my family’s past as lightning illuminates the cloud-spackled sky. In the living room, I see black-and-white photos of a woman in a flapper outfit—my great-great-grandmother, perhaps— and of two teenagers listening to an old-time radio in what looks like the early 1960s.

In one of the photos on the wall alongside the staircase, Boniface is holding my mom and Aunt Bea as little girls, one on either shoulder, as he grins at the camera. He doesn’t look much younger than he does now, although the photo must have been taken thirty-five years ago.

I continue up the stairs to a big piece of glossy, polished wood hanging from the wall. The words carved into it are so ornate that I have to squint to make them out.

For each ray of light, there’s a stroke of dark.

For each possibility, one has gone.

For each action, a reaction.

Ever in balance, the world spins on.


Weird, I think. It sounds almost like a warning. Or maybe I’m just taking it that way because I can’t shake the creepy images from my dream.

I spend the next several hours searching every picture in the house for an image of my dad, the piece of my family history I understand the least. I’ve only ever seen one photo of him: a faded picture where he’s standing in my mother’s rose garden, holding one of her purple Rose of Life blooms and grinning at the camera. Aunt Bea hates his guts, though she’s made a point of telling me that his leaving right before I was born had nothing to do with me. “He just wasn’t the man we all thought he was,” she always says.

By Wednesday evening, the only place in the house I haven’t explored is the room off the front hall with the blood-red doors, the one from my nightmare.

“I’m still looking for the key,” Boniface keeps telling me.


There’s a sharp knock on the front door at two thirty Thursday afternoon, just as I’m in the middle of texting with Meredith about a bag she’s debating buying at Michael Kors.

I bet it’s the UPS man with my Pointe Laveau uniform, I text as I get up to answer the door.

I can’t believe you have to wear a uniform, she texts back. CRAPTASTIC!!!!!!

I want to be insulted, but I completely agree. Plaid and a white oxford shirt are not exactly the fashion statement of the year.

But when I swing the door open, it’s not the UPS man at all. It’s a guy my age with brown hair, muddy hazel eyes, and a deep tan.

“Eveny?” he asks, staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.

“Yes . . .” I’m wondering why he seems to know me. He’s in a black suit with a pale blue shirt and a dark gray tie; he looks like he’s on the way to a prom.

“It’s Drew Grady.” His baritone has an appealing Southern twang to it. “Don’t you remember me?” He grins, and suddenly, I do.

“We used to play together,” I say. His mom was friends with my mom, and they’d sometimes get together to chat while we chased each other around the playground on Main Street. “I used to dump sand in your pants.”

“Every time our moms’ backs were turned,” he says with a laugh.

“What are you doing here?”

“My mom heard you and your aunt had moved back. I didn’t believe it, but I was walking by and saw all the curtains open.”

“Dressed kind of formally for a walk, aren’t you?” I ask. From the way he’s shifting around, and the fact that the suit doesn’t quite fit in the shoulders, I’d bet that he’s more of a Levi’s kind of guy. He looks itchy.

His face registers surprise, as if he’s just remembered what he’s wearing. “Oh, right. Well, I’m on my way to a funeral.”

“Geez, I’m sorry. Whose funeral is it?”

He looks down. “A girl at Pointe Laveau Academy. Same year as us.”

“Really? That’s so sad.”

Drew shrugs and clears his throat. “Well, um, it was good to see you, Eveny. I’ll come back at a better time.”

“Wait!” I call as he starts to walk away. “Can I come with you?”

“Um . . . ,” he begins.

“It’s just that I’ve been stuck here all week.” I realize how odd my request sounds, but I’m desperate to go anywhere. “I’m completely bored.”