Dolls Behaving Badly (18 page)

Saturday, Jan. 14

I. Am. So. Depressed. Again.

I opened the newspaper this morning to the large, smiling photograph of a woman from my childbirth class. She had published
an award-winning poetry book, and one reviewer praised it as “images filling the tongue like rain.” I skimmed through the
article. Mari Campton had three kids under the age of nine, and after her husband died four summers ago (he had fallen backward
over a cliff while photographing mountain sheep), she decided to put her grief into words. She worked full-time as an occupational
therapist and was getting a master’s in writing—where in the world had she found the time? I worked full-time, had one child,
and was lucky to find a spare hour to paint twice a week. Yet she had managed not only to hold herself together through her
husband’s death but to care for three children, work, go to school, and write a book.

“I wrote in the mornings before the children woke,” she said in the article. “I carried around a tape recorder and recorded
lines that came to me as I drove to swim lessons and gymnastics. I wrote in the bathtub and during lunch hours.”

It took her almost three years to finish the book.

I ate the crusts of Jay-Jay’s leftover toast and read the excerpt. It was good, really good. I was jealous beyond words: Someone
had what I wanted and, worse yet, probably deserved it more. She had worked harder to write that book than I had ever with
my painting. She found time in minutes, not hours, and did the best she could. She hadn’t given up or pushed her poems aside
or stored them in a closet. She brought them out, made them part of her life.

Why couldn’t I do the same? Well, nothing was stopping me. Stephanie was available to babysit and Laurel could fold laundry,
and while I couldn’t paint while driving or taking a bath, I could free my mind and start the transition from daily life to
painting. What exactly was stopping me from being who I wanted to be?

“Nothing,” I said out loud. Killer barked as if in agreement, and I threw her a doggy biscuit. Then I snuck into Laurel’s
room (my room?) and grabbed her digital camera without waking her. I took photographs of my best
Woman Running
paintings, hurriedly typed up a prospectus (shamelessly borrowed from an Internet sample), added a résumé (again, shamelessly
borrowed), printed out fifteen copies, and sealed one of each in manila envelopes. I drove to the Airport Post Office and
mailed a packet to every third art gallery in the phone book. I felt strong doing this, and proud and vindicated.

Twelve hours later, however, I feel quite differently. Shame floods my mouth, thick and rust flavored, along with that old
voice in my head:
who do you think you are?

Which is a good question. Who
do
I think I am? An artist? Someone with the talent to net a show in an environment where artists outnumber gallery openings
sixty to one?

Gramma always carried herself with such bravado, though much of it was false. “I ain’t as fat as I look,” she’d say whenever
anyone told her she had guts. Then she’d tell the story about smuggling a pig across Poland dressed in baby clothes, its piggy
head wrapped in a scarf, nothing showing but its greedy eyes. The train was filled with soldiers, and if Gramma had been caught
she would have been shot.

“Or worse,” she whispered, and Laurel, Gene, and I huddled together, imagining hideous tortures where our grandmother was
flayed with noodles and made to eat sweet cakes until her belly exploded. Before she boarded the train, Gramma drugged the
pig with expensive medicine bought from the underground market.

“
Ach
, he sleep like a baby,” she said.

When two German officers sat down across from her, she opened her lunch basket and took out hunks of smelly cheese and green
sauerkraut to cover the piggy smell. She offered these stinking gifts to the officers; of course, they turned her down.

She got off the train at Krakow, where her sister and mother were waiting.

“It a shame to kill that pig.” Gramma clasped her hand around her throat. “But people gotta eat. Still, it make my
brzuch
ache. Maybe I think it really is my child, maybe I do that somehow.”

Mother pooh-poohed this story. “She made it up,” she insisted. “She got it from some movie.”

Probably she did, but we didn’t care. We loved this story, loved to think of our fat, sweaty grandmother sitting on a train
across from German officers, a pig dressed like a baby cradled in her arms. We loved the comfort it brought, the reassurance,
the message embedded in this strange tale that we heard but wouldn’t understand until years later: that in a world where pigs
can pass for babies, there is always room for possibilities.

“I’m back,” he yawned. “My luggage didn’t make it, so I stole one of those airline pillows in my pack. I’ll give it back when
they give me back my suitcase.”

I sat on the kitchen floor and picked dog hairs off the linoleum.

“You there?” he asked.

“Yes,” I finally said. “I got the bones.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Did you like?”

“I-I guess. I mean, I’m not sure what to
do
with them. But they’re nice.” I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I knew how sensitive men could be. “Jay-Jay took one of
the ribs to school and gave it to a girl.”

“No way!” Francisco’s voice immediately perked up. “Does he like her?”

“Maybe. He got in trouble, though. The principal called; it was kind of a mess.”

“Bones can be powerful. They hold the essence of life, even after death. It’s mind-boggling, when you think about it.” He
yawned again. “Listen, I’d better hit the sack. I’ll call tomorrow. Let’s get together, okay?”

“Um, sure.”

“’Night.”

I placed the phone next to my pillow. Francisco was no longer on the line, but I liked knowing that I could call anytime,
even in the middle of the night, and he’d pick up and let me listen to him breathe.

Monday, Jan. 16

I left work early today and drove home to pick up Laurel for her ultrasound appointment. She stumbled down the steps in a
hideous red-and-green-plaid maternity blouse with a red bow tied around the neck.

“Not a word,” she hissed, as she slid into the passenger seat and fastened her safety harness. “Mother sent it last week.
She’s under the mistaken impression that it’s Junior’s baby, not that I’m about to correct her.”

“I was just going to say that you forgot your coat,” I lied, as I peeled out of the driveway. Fifteen minutes later we arrived
at the Dimond Medical Clinic, where we sat with Dr. Betsy (“That’s my last name, not my first. I’m not the Betsy type,” she
informed us the minute we walked into the room). “Okay, Laurie, feet in the stirrups.”

Laurel’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like her to not give the doctor a piece of her mind for getting
her name wrong, though it’s difficult to be dignified with your legs splayed open in front of a woman you’ve never met. The
doctor did a quick pelvic exam as I hummed and stared at the ceiling; when I peeked over Laurel had her eyes squeezed tight,
the way she used to when we played hide-and-seek.

“Now I want you to sit up and drink this.” Dr. Betsy handed her a huge bottle of colored water. “Don’t worry, there are no
calories, just flavoring.” Laurel nodded and obediently began to drink. “You wouldn’t believe the gripes I get about the flavoring—women
worried that they might accidently suck in fifty or sixty extra calories. As if that would matter. Pregnancy is the great
equalizer.” Dr. Betsy nodded thoughtfully. “Skinny women bloat up like there’s no tomorrow, and next thing you know they’re
in my office crying about how they treated the fat girl back in high school.

“Laurie, you can slip into this robe”—she pointed at a hideous green terry cloth robe with sunflowers climbing up the sides—“and
go sit in the waiting room. We have another fifteen or so minutes before the liquid hits your bladder. Don’t pee, don’t fidget,
and don’t laugh, got that?”

Laurel pulled the ugly robe over her paper smock and waddled out. I followed with her shoes, and we sat side by side trying
to find the hidden objects in
Highlights for Children
magazines. She sipped the flavored water with a seriousness that brought tears to my eyes. Right as I circled a hair clip
hidden in a pony’s leg, Dr. Betsy called us back into the office. Laurel lay down on the sheeted table and I stood beside
her. When she wiggled her fingers, I instinctively grabbed her hand.

“Warning, this will be cold.” Dr. Betsy placed a white knob shaped like the leg of a couch over Laurel’s abdomen.

Up on the computer screen grayish shadows vibrated and expanded in a strange tunnel that looked like a light from a late-night-movie
spaceship. Then the outline of Laurel’s baby swam into view, its froggy head bopping in amniotic fluid, one arm outstretched,
the other pressed against its mouth as if ready to whisper secrets.

“It’s an active one.” Dr. Betsy pressed buttons on the computer and zeroed in on the focus until the baby’s head emerged,
alien shaped, the eyes overly large, the body tossing back and forth.

“Do you want to know the sex?” Dr. Betsy asked.

“It’s a girl,” Laurel said. “But go ahead and check if you don’t believe me.”

As Dr. Betsy maneuvered the knob around Laurel’s belly, I remembered back to my own ultrasound. I was afraid at the time that
Barry would say something dumb or tell off-the-wall jokes, but he stood beside me, bearded and serious as we waited to see
our son for the first time. My eyes filled with tears at the memory of Jay-Jay’s face, along with the
whump-whump-whump
ing of his heartbeat, so familiar it was like hearing my own breath.

Dr. Betsy punched more computer keys and the baby’s feet kicked toward us as if sending a message. “She’s going to be a handful,
I can already tell,” Dr. Betsy said. “It’s the attitude. You might think that if you’ve seen one ultrasound, you’ve seen them
all, but every so often distinct personalities emerge. One mother suggested that these were the old souls, returning to fulfill
a prophecy.”

Dr. Betsy printed out photos to take home. Laurel clutched these in her hands and refused to let go, so I helped her pull
on her pants and button her blouse. Her face was dreamy, flushed, and she stared out the window on the way home, not saying
a word until I turned onto Spenard Road.

“Did you hear what she said, that my baby is an old soul, here to fulfill a prophecy?”

I nodded and zoomed through a yellow light at the Fireweed intersection.

“Maybe that’s why… Carly, can I tell you something if you promise not to breathe a word to anyone?”

I bypassed our road and kept driving down toward the lagoon.

“I did it on purpose. Don’t say anything, just let me finish.” She sucked in her breath and patted the photos against her
chest. “I never planned on having kids. That’s one of the reasons I married Junior. He couldn’t have kids, I didn’t want them—it
seemed the perfect match. But then about a year ago I started seeing babies everywhere. It didn’t matter where I went, to
the gym or Kaladi Brothers or the supermarket, it was almost as if they were following me. I was annoyed at first; you know,
I’ve never been a baby person. Then one day as I slid my credit card through the card reader at Fred Meyer, I saw a woman
behind me holding a baby, and its legs were so chubby, the skin so perfect and smooth, that I leaned over and kissed its bare
foot.

“Well, I was mortified. I apologized over and over but the mother just laughed, said she understood, that babies were the
milk of the gods—isn’t that a beautiful saying, Carly? The milk of the gods.”

I pulled into the lagoon parking lot, put the car in park, and left the heater running on low.

“It was later that week, a Wednesday night,” Laurel continued, “which I took as a good sign. Remember how I always did better
on tests midweek? We were at the Sheraton, the TV was on; Hank liked to catch himself doing the weather report, it perked
him up, if you know what I mean. I got up and went in the bathroom, and I still remember the light, so gold and soft as I
watched my reflection pull out my diaphragm and flush it down the toilet. It almost didn’t go down but I pushed it hard with
a toilet brush I found beneath the sink. I washed my hands, patted lotion across my face, and went back to Hank. I felt the
moment it happened, felt the clink of my egg reaching out and grabbing the sperm. I say ‘the’ sperm because even then I didn’t
see it as Hank’s, only as something that belonged to me.

“The funny thing is that a week later, I no longer cared about babies. I felt no attachment, no desire to touch them, let
alone kiss their feet. By that time, of course, it was too late to see a doctor about a morning-after pill. I knew before
I took the first test that I was pregnant, though by that time I no longer wanted it. But that must not have been true or
I would have gone ahead and had the abortion, wouldn’t I? It was almost as if the baby decided I would have it; it picked
me as its mother, and that was that.”

“Like Jay-Jay,” I said. “There’s no way Barry and I could have produced such a kid by ourselves. He’s either a genetic mutation
or a miracle.”

“A miracle,” Laurel mumbled. “The milk of the gods. My baby is going to be an old soul. I wonder what she will teach me?”
She leaned back and closed her eyes. “This is going to be hard, isn’t it, Carly? This is going to be the most difficult thing
I’ve ever done.”

Tuesday, Jan. 17

“I’m getting fat,” Barry said over the phone this morning at 5:30 a.m. “Pants don’t fit and I got this lumpy thing going on
around my belly.”

“You look fine,” I yawned, trying to remember if this was true. “You’re a chef. You’re supposed to be heavy.”

“I didn’t say heavy, I said a few pounds.”

I barely listened but Barry didn’t seem to mind. Now that we no longer slept together we had become friends, real friends,
the way we weren’t able to be when we were married.

“…find me attractive?” he said, and I knew this was my cue.

“Women like a bit of a belly on a man,” I said. “It’s sexy. It says, here’s a guy who isn’t afraid of his appetites.”

“I ain’t gonna believe that,” he said, but his voice sounded stronger. “Jay-Jay told me about the camp. Says it costs five
grand and you wasn’t gonna be able to come up with half. So I says, don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.”

“Huh?”

“All that money you think I owe on Jay-Jay’s support? I ain’t been holding out on him. Maybe I was pissed, okay, I was pissed,
but damn it, Carly, a man’s got a right to hold a grudge and it’s not like you been starving. I would have stepped right in
if things got critical, you know that about me.”

I held the phone tight to my ear, my fingers cramping.

“I got it all.” He let out a long breath and was quiet for a moment. “For college, see, I started this CD, one of them jump-uppers
where they let you add quarterly. He got, let me see.” I heard the shuffle of paper and the bang of something knocked over.
“Six thousand two hundred and fifty-six dollars. That’s the last statement, so of course it’s up by now.”

I didn’t know what to say. On one hand I was furious: he had had the money all along! While we ate generic spaghetti and wiped
our butts with cheap, scratchy toilet paper! On the other hand, he was right: I always made do and things have been tough,
but we never went hungry or cold, and there was always enough for everything we needed.

“You got every right to be mad,” Barry continued, “but I always done good by Jay-Jay. He can go to camp if he gets one of
them partial scholarships, and later a big-league college.”

I didn’t have the heart to mention that those “big-league” schools cost over forty-five thousand a year. Instead I said something
that surprised us both. “Thank you.”

Five hours later I crouched in the lounge on the first cig dig of the shift and told this to Sandee. It was too cold to go
outside, and a table of off-the-base soldiers was getting seriously sloshed across from us.

“We finally did it last night,” Sandee interrupted. “It wasn’t very good. Shouldn’t that make me happy, for it to be bad so
that I could say, ‘Okay, this isn’t the man for me,’ and then walk away, no obligation, no refund?”

“It isn’t always good the first time, you know that. Expectation alone can ruin the experience.”

“I don’t understand.” She sank down into a sitting position, her clumpy hiking boots splayed out in the aisle. “Everything
was perfect. He touched me so tenderly, as if I might break, little touches like whispers across my skin.” I sat down beside
her, the carpet spongy and dirty. “It wasn’t bad, don’t get me wrong. He knew what he was doing; he tried his best but I just
couldn’t get there.”

“So you didn’t come, big deal. Sometimes it takes time to learn each other.” I was jealous: I wanted to sleep with Francisco,
yet I was relieved that I hadn’t.

“I suppose.” She was clearly depressed. “He left right after. I found his socks beneath the bed, that’s how fast he took off;
he didn’t even bother grabbing them.”

“I thought he didn’t wear socks.” She looked at me blankly. “You know, the sandals without socks? The first date?”

“Oh,
that
. He was just trying to impress me. Now that he knows he has my interest, he wears socks again.”

“He’s in love with you.” I pulled her up and wiped the dust off the back of her skirt as Mr. Tims veered toward us.

“Now that you girls have finished with your fake cigarette break, can you please get your asses back on the floor? I’m out
of Valiums.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair. “You
do not
want to get on my bad side today.”

An hour later, in the thick of the lunch rush, with all my tables full and a two-page waiting list up front, I turned around
and there was Francisco sitting in my section again. His hair was windblown, his face chapped from being outside, his beautiful
hands folded over his place mat. He looked so damned good that I couldn’t stand it. My mouth opened but no words came out.
He didn’t say anything, either. We looked at each other.

“I think I’m going to have to put my glasses on for this.” He rummaged through his pockets until he pulled out a worn black
case, which he opened, and quickly set a pair of silver-rimmed glasses on his nose. “That’s better, I can see you now.” He
gazed at me in a friendly, unabashed fashion, the way a child stares, unself-consciously.