The Dollhouse (25 page)

At seven thirty that evening, while reading out loud from Stephen Hawking's latest, Rose looked up to discover her father had passed away. He gave no sign, no warning, not even a raspy breath. One moment he was there, and the next, he was gone. She was unprepared for the suddenness of the ending. The nurses said he'd been doing well that day, had opened his eyes once or twice. She'd pictured his death in her imagination already: He'd shift back into consciousness, focus on her, and even if he didn't say a word, they'd have one last connection.

But that didn't happen.

Maddy was by her side not long after receiving her anguished call, murmuring all the right things. Rose fell into her arms.

“I don't know, did I do the right thing? Maybe I should have kept him in his home longer, moved in with him and found an aide to help during the day.” Had he been happy at all, in the recesses of his cloudy mind? She couldn't say the thought out loud, and burst into tears.

Maddy handed her a tissue. “You did what had to be done, and he loved you dearly. Don't second-guess yourself.”

“I can't help it.” The full weight of his fear and confusion fell upon her with a brutal force. She didn't do enough, she let herself get sidetracked by work and Griff. Just as her mother had disappeared one day, her father had as well.

All her life she'd been terrified that her father would disappear the way her mother had. That feeling had dissipated as she headed into her teens, but she'd replayed the same game with Griff. Hoping if she said the right thing or presented herself properly, he'd never abandon her.

But they all had, in one way or another. Stella was right. In the end, she was alone. Not even Jason would bother with her, now that he'd learned the truth about her craziness.

She wished she could disappear as well, leave all the pain and solitude behind. She imagined the fall off the terrace of the Barbizon. The drop would take mere seconds. A rush of air and then a burst of pain. Then nothing. What had gone through Darby's mind during the descent? What were her regrets?

Rose's were obvious. She regretted everything to do with her father. Each decision had been made carefully, but there was no way of knowing if any of them had been correct. He'd gotten sick, he'd fallen, he'd died. The narrative arc was all there. They might have happened no matter what she'd done. But she could have done more. She should have done more.

She couldn't even remember the last real conversation they'd had, before he'd become muddled and angry. How she wished she could rewind the video of her life and watch just that snippet. To see if she'd smiled at him, or touched his hand, or done anything to show him how much she loved him.

She held his hand now, and cried.

New York City, 2016

A
rrangements were made; kind words were said by the nurses and doctors who'd tended to Rose's father over the past few years. His normally easygoing nature had turned obstinate and changed as his disease had progressed, so it wasn't surprising how few of his former friends showed up to his memorial service. The nursing home sent flowers, as did one or two of the students he'd stayed in touch with.

His death was a shock, even though Rose had been preparing for it for a long time. The pain was surprisingly physical, as if her inner organs had liquefied and all that was left was a hard outer shell that protected a dull, pulsating ache.

After the service, she packed up her belongings, knowing Darby would be back in three days. Maddy had offered to spend the afternoon with her, but Rose wanted to say a quiet good-bye to Darby's spirit before she left the Barbizon for good tomorrow morning. She'd wait out the next couple of days at Maddy's apartment and hand over Bird without asking any further questions. Just a good neighbor helping out in a pinch, that's all. She'd miss Bird. They'd come to appreciate each other as roommates. She was sure he'd even smiled at her once when she came home. In a toothy, doggy way, but still.

She placed the small copper urn with her father's ashes on the
windowsill while she tidied up. Her plan was to wait until spring to scatter them, when the lilac bushes were fragrant and thick with blooms. The winter would seem very long, but having a set period of mourning somehow seemed appropriate.

The book of spices went back on the top bookshelf where she'd found it; same with the copy of
Romeo and Juliet.
It was time to let Sam and Darby and Esme go, let them be at peace, wherever they were.

Her phone rang. Griff again. He'd been calling Rose regularly since their awkward chance meeting in front of the building, trying to explain how sorry he was and asking if they might “grab a coffee and really talk.” She let the call go to voice mail without an ounce of regret. At the very least, the past few weeks had freed her from her bond to Griff. She didn't miss him anymore.

She did think about Jason, though. Which was annoying, as she had no desire to replace one man with another. Maddy had advised her to slow down and stay out of the game for a while, and she agreed. Too much had happened for her to be running into the arms of another man. No matter how tempting those arms might be.

For the first time in her life, she was free from everything. No family, no lovers, no job. Maybe she'd travel the world, write freelance pieces from faraway places that mashed up the best places to eat with some kind of soul-searching epiphany. No, that'd been done already. Besides, she was always the type to dig in, to nest. What made Rose happiest was sitting in a comfy armchair on a rainy day, reading a good book. Crossing China by train or driving the Mongolian deserts paled in comparison. She was a homebody at heart, like her father.

Unsure of what to do next, and reluctant to go, she lay facedown on the sofa. Maybe Jason was right. She'd been living Darby's life instead of her own. Much easier to stay buried in the past, particularly someone else's past. Her phone rang again and at first she ignored it, expecting it to be Griff once again.

But it was Jason. She knew she shouldn't talk to anyone, considering the state she was in. But she couldn't resist.

He spoke quickly. “Look, I was awful to you the other day. I was angry about the story and that you quit.”

Rose sighed. “You said it yourself, it was better that the story was killed. We didn't even have Darby-slash-Esme lined up; it was a disaster waiting to happen. I handled it terribly, lost my bearings.”

“Maybe, but there was a lot of pressure on you. I've seen journalists lose their minds plenty of times, believe me.”

“In war. Not doing a feature on old ladies. Pathetic, really.”

“You and I both know it was a great story, nothing pathetic about it. And I'm sorry I said you were no smarter than Tyler. You're way smarter.”

She laughed for the first time in days. “Apology accepted. I know you were only trying to look out for me.”

“Hey, your instincts are great. You fell into the trap of overempathizing with your source. Happens all the time.”

“But I barely even knew her.”

“Which meant you were able to project everything you wanted onto her. She was a scary vision of your future, everything you were worried about turning into.”

“You're quite the therapist, Dr. Wolf.”

“I like that. ‘Dr. Wolf.' Maybe I should switch careers.”

“I'm thinking about doing the same.”

“How's your father?” His voice was tentative, careful.

“He passed away three days ago. Peacefully.” She couldn't say anything else or she'd burst into tears.

“Oh, Rose. I'm so sorry. Jesus. I know what you're going through, I really do.”

“We had a lovely memorial, with all five of the friends he had left. Funny, it made me wonder who would turn up at my funeral.” The dog looked up at her and panted. “Bird, maybe.”

“I miss you.”

Her heart turned over a couple of times. “I miss you, too.”

“Listen, I just noticed that Malcolm is playing at Dizzy's at Lincoln
Center tonight. Some kind of tribute to the old stars of bebop. I think we should go.”

The chance of listening to the music live was tempting. “I thought we were going to drop the story. I'm moving out first thing tomorrow morning, just so you know.”

“Where are you going?” His voice carried a hint of concern.

Perhaps he was worried that she'd be going back to Griff. “To my friend Maddy's. Should be a circus. Two kids, husband, me on a couch.”

“You can stay here, if you like, until you figure things out.”

“It's nice of you to offer, but I can't; we barely know each other.”

“We know each other better than you think. For example, I know what the spot on your lower back, right where your spine curves, tastes like.”

She shivered. “And what does that taste like, exactly?”

“Sweet, like honey.”

“However tempting your offer, I have to take some time and think things through.”

“You're not thinking about going back to the Ken doll, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Good. So let's go out and hear some music tonight, all right? It's a great venue, musicians who've been around the block and will blow our socks off. Your dad would want you to try to enjoy life, right?”

The last thing he'd want was her lying around on the couch like a mopey teenager.

That much was true.

“
I wonder how long it's been since Malcolm performed.” Rose turned to Jason as the musicians walked onto the stage to the sounds of whistles and clapping.

“That's a good question. You can ask him afterward.”

The quintet was a little creaky in the joints, from the look of it, and for a moment Rose worried that Malcolm wouldn't be able to get himself
behind the drum set without tripping. Once they were all safely in place, the trumpet player counted off and they launched into “52nd Street Theme.”

She was glad she'd come. Instead of the typical dark jazz club, Dizzy's was located on the fifth floor of a massive skyscraper overlooking Central Park. The room was all strange angles and curves, with huge windows that soared behind the musicians. The dusky sky acted as the backdrop, changing slowly throughout the set from azure to navy. And the crowd was an eclectic bunch, ranging from large tables of Asian tourists to serious jazz aficionados who punctuated the solos with determined approval.

The musicians played off each other, laughing out loud at times. The sax player riffed on a theme that the pianist then took up, and Malcolm all the while kept up a fast beat, the bass drum underlining each turn of phrase. Malcolm's face was ecstatic with joy, and Rose's eyes filled just watching him.

As the musicians took their bows, she reached out and touched Jason's arm. “This is amazing. Thank you.”

“I'm glad you came.”

“I am, too.” She wiped away her tears. “Sorry I'm so emotional.”

“Please, you don't have to be sorry about anything.”

The crowd began to filter out, but Rose and Jason ordered another round. They waited until the musicians reappeared, mingling with those who'd stayed. The stragglers all knew one another, and there was much handshaking and backslapping.

“There's Malcolm.” He was walking toward an older man seated at a table in the back corner.

Jason and Rose weaved their way over. Jason spoke first. “I hate to interrupt, Mr. Buckley, but we wanted to say hello.”

Malcolm's eyes registered confusion.

“We spoke at your apartment a couple of weeks ago, about the story for WordMerge,” offered Rose.

Malcolm nodded but didn't say anything.

She continued on. “Anyway, the story's been killed, unfortunately, but we wanted to thank you for your time. We heard you were performing and had to come. You were terrific.”

“Well, I appreciate that.”

The other man slammed his hand down on the table and they all jumped. “What story? You need all the publicity you can get, old man.”

Rose explained. “It wasn't about music, really, more about something that happened back in 1952 at the Barbizon Hotel for Women.”

The other man stared at her with cloudy eyes. “The Barbizon?”

Malcolm touched his arm. “Now, don't get all excited.” He turned to Jason and Rose. “I'd like you to meet my brother, Sam Buckley.”

Rose stared, trying to match the man's lined face and thinning gray hair with the image she had in her head of Sam as a young man. He was thinner than his brother, as if he'd been ever so slightly deflated. The purple dress shirt he wore was crisp and pressed but one size too large. His strong features hadn't been softened by age, his chin charmingly dimpled.

“You're Sam. And you're in town,” Rose managed to stammer out.

“I am indeed, on both counts.”

“We've been looking for you,” said Jason. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“We thought you were unreachable,” added Rose, looking over at Malcolm.

“Now, who told you that?”

Malcolm crossed his arms. “His stepdaughter, Jessica, had been taking care of him out in San Francisco, and last year she got transferred to New York and brought him along. My brother's been through a lot, and I didn't think he'd be interested in your questions.”

“What questions? For God's sake, I can still hear what you say, little brother. I've got glaucoma. I'm not deaf.” Sam picked up the cane resting against his chair and banged it on the floor a couple of times. “My sight's not what it used to be, but I can smack you with this cane easy. I'm going back to California if you think I'm such a fragile flower.”

“Fine; talk, then. I'll leave the three of you to it.”

Malcolm got up and was immediately surrounded by well-wishers.

Sam smiled. “My brother is protective of me. What's this story about, exactly?”

Rose filled him in on the background, about meeting her mysterious neighbor and the interviews with the women of the fourth floor.

“But the woman disappeared before I could interview her.”

“Who?”

Rose got the impression he was testing her. “Esme, who we think assumed Darby McLaughlin's identity after the fall on the roof.”

He stiffened. “And how do you know about that?”

“We saw the letter you wrote to her; she saved your reply.”

“She showed it to you?”

Jason stepped in. “We've also seen the book of spices. It's phenomenal, and we were wondering what you ended up doing out West, if you were able to put your recipes to use.”

“The book of spices. I can't believe it's still around.” He scratched his jaw. “I showed up at my brother's hotel room, on the run, and tried to forget about that damn book. Got a job in a Vietnamese restaurant and eventually married the owner's daughter, a widow. Not a bad life, until she passed away and my eyes started to go. But Jessica takes good care of me.”

“I'm glad to hear that. We found the book intriguing, to say the least.”

“Well, thanks. It's funny to think Esme's saved it all these years. I figured she'd tossed it in the trash.”

“Maybe you can meet her, and she'll give it back to you. It is yours, after all.”

He cleared his throat. “I don't want to stir up trouble. I have nothing to say to her.” A fleeting look of pain crossed his face.

Rose threw a warning glance to Jason. “We don't want to upset you in any way, Mr. Buckley. But we know about Mr. Kalai and the drug ring; we were hoping you could fill us in on some of the details we're missing.”

“You want to know what happened that day?”