Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease (7 page)

She woke again, suddenly, to the sound of a loud vehicle rumbling to a stop. Doors opened and closed; men shouted back and forth.

“You almost got her, Ron! Okay. Few more steps. That’s it, that’s it.” The sound of heavy footsteps around the side of the house, up the wooden porch steps.

A few moments later she heard more footsteps, coming back outside. More male voices: shouts, conversation.

Still as a stone, she listened.

Another vehicle pulled into the gravel drive. Two car doors opened and then slammed shut. She heard the small, animated voice of a child singing a song; the shuffling of skipping feet and the sound of leaves being kicked up close to Darce’s resting place.

Small hands suddenly lifted her upright. Shocked, she stared at the freckled face before her. Two wide-set, blue-green, curious eyes, tiny rosebud lips, and a snub-nose set perfectly in the center. Ringlets of red hair glowed like an unruly orange halo beneath the bright, mid-spring sunshine.

“Hello!” The little girl smiled. There was a small empty space to the right of her two front bottom teeth. She brushed leaves and dirt from Darce’s blue satin dress and smoothed the lace over Darce’s bare shins. She passed her hand over Darce’s hair and face, wiping away crispy leaf crumbs.

“I’m Rebecca Murphy,” the little girl said. “But people call me Becky.”

Hello, Becky. My name is Darce. But my little girl used to call me Mommy.

Becky held Darce tightly and ran toward the house.

On this short and bumpy trip, Darce was able to see the world of light and color she had been blind to for so long.

The green grass skimmed by, too tall and weedy with dandelions. The blue sky stretched infinitely above the pines. Small birds, partially hidden in the dense leaves and branches of the hedge, hopped to and fro, twittering. Orange and black butterflies fluttered in the air. Their flight looked confused, as though they had lost their way.

“Mom! Mommy! Look what I found!”

Becky thrust the doll forward, holding Darce out for her mother to look at.

A brief shudder of déjà vu ran through Darce’s inner self as Carol Murphy bent down and scrutinized Darce’s face with big, blue-green eyes similar to her daughter’s. Her hair was the same shade as Becky’s, but fell in loose waves, instead of red ringlets.

“She is very pretty,” Carol said. Her forehead wrinkled as she continued her examination. The doll’s face looked somehow familiar; dark brown laughing eyes, long black hair. Maybe she’d seen this doll in the toy section of a department store or on a television commercial.

It was wearing some kind of fairy costume, a blue satin dress with blue nylon wings. The dress was covered with small dots of mold.

“But she’s really grimy, isn’t she?” Carol said. “You know how I feel about bringing strange toys in the house.”

“Oh, mommy, please don’t say I can’t keep her! I can give her a bath! She’ll be just like new!”

Carol gave Darce a last dubious look, then smiled warmly as she reached over Darce’s head to ruffle Becky’s red curls. “Maybe we can salvage her. Why don’t you take her in right now and give her a bath while I finish unloading these last few boxes? Those clothes are no good, though. You’ll have to see if some of your other dolls’ clothes might fit her.

Relief flooded through Darce.
Thank God,
she thought.

“Yay! Hooray!” Becky cheered. She twirled around and skipped up the steps and through the back door into Darce’s old home.

Before Becky whisked her into the bathroom, Darce caught a quick glimpse at the inside of her house, which greeted her like a long-lost friend. She saw the bulky shapes beneath the dust covers and wondered if they belonged to the same sofa, loveseat, and old overstuffed chair she and Chelsea once cuddled in on rainy nights and during snowy winter weekends.

Becky clicked the bathroom light on and sat Darce on the counter top at the edge of the white porcelain sink. “Now you wait here, Darce,” she said, “And I’ll go find a washcloth and some soap for your bath.” She skipped away, humming to herself.

Darce. She called me Darce! She knows my name!
Maybe . . . maybe I can be saved!

But how?

The last time Darce had been so lovingly pampered, it had been as a child, tended to by her mother.

She sat in the sink, immersed in warm, sudsy water while Becky scrubbed her face and body and washed her hair. Afterward, Becky wrapped her in a thick, soft towel and attempted to comb her hair, which was full of snarls.

At least I can’t feel the pain,
Darce thought as Becky tugged the comb ruthlessly through her thick, black hair.

She was relieved when Mrs. Murphy called to Becky to set her aside for a while and put her belongings away in her new bedroom.

Darce sat and relaxed on the sofa –
her
sofa, with its familiar dark blue cushions.

Carol had taken vacation from work so that they could accomplish the move. During the next few days, she and Becky busied themselves with unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, and decorating their new home.

Darce enjoyed being with them. They uplifted her spirit with a bittersweet hope. Their compact family of two was so like Darce’s own . . . filled with the same daily activities. They watched kids’ shows, danced to silly kids’ songs or pop tunes on the radio, ate meals of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, played board games, and had a nightly bedtime routine.

Darce learned that Becky’s father had passed away during a tour of duty in Afghanistan. She watched Mrs. Murphy place his photo beside the urn on the fireplace mantel. He had been handsome in his uniform, with dark eyes and a bright white smile.

Carol had finally gotten most of the household belongings put away; now it was time to take care of the items that weren’t currently in use: winter coats and boots, Becky’s sled, Christmas and other holiday decorations, and the like. This meant a trip to the attic.

Carol had been to the attic once, when she had viewed the house as a possibility. It had been full of someone else’s belongings. From what Carol understood, this clutter had belonged to the previous owner and her daughter, both of whom had disappeared nearly two years before. Most of these items, other than the furniture, had been moved into the attic for storage in the event of the O’Neils’ return.

Carol had had qualms about buying a house with that kind of history, not the least of which were caused by the similarity between the O’Neil’s single-mom-mother-daughter family dynamic and her own. The story gave her chills. It was because of the disturbing recent history, however, coupled with the fact that she got the house at a tax sale for the low price of two years’ worth of back taxes owed, that made it possible for her to afford the house, in the first place. The mortgage on the house had been settled prior to the O’Neils’ disappearance.

Every time Carol felt misgivings about her choice in housing, she pushed them away by reassuring herself that she had gotten a steal. It was a lovely house, perfect for her and Becky. It came with all the modern conveniences: a washer and dryer, a dishwasher, central air, nice big back yard, working fireplace. Carol loved her new home.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling just a little creeped out as she headed up to the attic. She tried to keep her balance on the narrow wooden steps as she carried the large, awkward box. She was glad that the attic door handle was just a lever instead of a knob; at least she could just push the lever down with her elbow and shoulder the door open without having to put the box down and pick it back up again.

She made it inside the door and, arms trembling with strain, she practically dropped the box to the wooden floorboards, where its impact sent up a small dust cloud. Carol sneezed and waved her arms around to try to dispel the dust. The back of her hand struck something solid that shifted from its resting place and fell to the floor with a
thump.

She bent to see what object she had displaced, and saw that it was a photo album, a little dusty, but not very old. She squatted to pick it up and rested it on her knees. Curious, she opened it and leafed through the pages.

There were a lot of pictures of a little blonde girl who looked just a little younger than Becky. Christmases, birthday parties . . . first days of school, judging by the neat little dresses she wore as she stood in front of the open door of a school bus in several different photos.

But then her forehead wrinkled when she reached a photo of the little girl with a dark haired woman. Two matching sets of light brown eyes and similar facial features told Carol that this must be the little girl’s mother. Her breath caught in her throat.

This must be the missing mother and daughter.

Yes, they were, she decided as she looked further through the album. She remembered the pictures in the local newspaper a few days after they had disappeared.

But there was something about the woman . . .

She stopped again at a professional photo that had been taken of the girl and her mother. They were both dressed nicely for the portrait. The mother wore a light blue satin dress. The picture bothered Carol, but she wasn’t sure why. The woman seemed so familiar . . . she shook her head. She just couldn’t remember.

She closed the album. She had work to do right now, but later on she would take the time to sort the items in the attic and get them into some sort of order.

She stood and placed the album back on top of the box of items she had knocked it off of. In the process, she noticed the corner of another book poking up. She pulled it out. Feeling the textured black cover and seeing the gilt edges of its tissue-thin pages, Carol thought it was a Bible until she opened it and saw unlined pages filled with spidery old handwriting, accompanied by various drawings and diagrams.

Apparently someone’s old journal,
she thought.
This might be interesting. Might even hold a clue to the mother and daughter’s disappearance!

Or maybe not . . . but Carol was intrigued, and after pushing the box she had carried upstairs out of the way against the wall, she took the book downstairs with her and set it on the side table so that she could peruse the thing in the evening, when the day was settled and she could relax.

She continued sorting and boxing up the items she and Becky wouldn’t be using. Remembering her difficulty with the last box she had taken to the attic, she made sure she chose box sizes that she could easily carry and that she distributed the weight of the contents more evenly so the boxes wouldn’t be too heavy.

“Mommy, can I use your tea kettle? Me and Darce are going to have a tea party, and I can’t find mine.”

“Sure, sweetheart,” Carol replied, “But don’t put water in the kettle, okay?
Pretend
tea.” She set a box on top of the stack and turned around. She stopped when she saw Becky’s doll.

“I thought I told you that old dress was no good,” she said. Then she stopped and stared at the doll.

“But I like it . . . it’s pretty! And I washed it,” Becky added.

“Can I see?” Carol held out her hands. Becky obliged and handed the doll over to her mother.

“You did a very good job washing the dress. It must not have been as damaged as I thought.” She smoothed the satin dress, straightened the nylon wings. She passed her hand down the doll’s straight, dark hair and wondered at how soft and realistic the shiny tresses felt. She scrutinized its face, touching the cheeks with her fingertips. The skin felt eerily soft and supple . . . like a child’s skin. She’d never felt anything like it.

Wait a minute . . . matching brown eyes
. . .
facial structure
. . .

The doll looked like the mother in the photo album.

That doesn’t mean anything. Dolls can look like people. Some people buy dolls that look like them.

A sudden thought struck Carol. She looked at Becky. “What did you say you named her?”

“Darce.”

Darce . . . was that the mother’s name? “What made you think of that name, Becky?”

“She told me it was her name.”

“She
told
you?”

“Yes. I asked what’s your name, and she thought,
Darce
. And I heard her. So I named her that.”

“Aaaah. I see.” Carol slowly handed the doll back to her daughter, an uneasy feeling settling in the back of her mind. “Does Darce talk often?”

Becky’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! She talked to me about Kelsley, her little girl, and the witch, and how she’s so unhappy because she’s not really a doll, she’s trapped in there, and I wish I could help her!”

Carol felt faint. She leaned against the boxes she had just finished stacking against the wall. “Ummm, oh. That’s really an interesting story.”

“Oh, but I don’t think it’s just a story, Mommy, I think it’s really true! I can’t hear my other dolls, we have to pretend talk. But Darce really talks.”

“Okay, Rebecca, it’s about dinner time. Why don’t you and . . . Darce . . . go have your tea party, and you can have some pretend appetizers, and by the time you’re all finished, I’ll have the main dish on the table, how does that sound?”