Soldier Doll

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Gold, Jennifer, author

Soldier doll / Jennifer Gold.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-927583-29-6 (pbk.) .— ISBN 978-1-927583-30-2 (epub)

I. Title.

PS8613.O4317S65 2014 jC813'.6 C2014-900014-6

C2014-900015-4

Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Gold

Edited by Kathryn White

Copyedited by Kathryn Cole and Kate Abrams

Designed by Melissa Kaita

Cover photographs © iStockphoto

Printed and bound in Canada

Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council

and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge

the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

Published by

Second Story Press

20 Maud Street, Suite 401

Toronto, ON M5V 2M5

www.secondstorypress.ca

Dedication: For my mother

Chapter 1

Toronto, Canada

2007

It looks like a doll—at first. It has a doll's baby face, complete with pink cherubic cheeks and rosebud mouth. The carved and painted hair is soft-looking and yellow-blond. A closer look, however, tells a different story. The little figure is dressed in carefully painted army finery and stands stiffly, arms at his sides, feet together.

Elizabeth looks at the doll with interest. It's been years, of course, since she played with dolls—she's fifteen now and much too old for that sort of thing—but there's something unusual about this one, something compelling that makes her want to take a second glance. It looks less like a soldier than a baby in uniform, its delicate little hands a stark contrast to the gray military coat. She leans forward on the table to get a better look, and it wobbles slightly; she nearly loses a flip-flop trying to steady herself. An old man nearby in a gray wool suit—
Isn't he hot?
she wonders, wiping the sweat from her own forehead—gives her a disapproving stare, the kind adults usually dole out with advice on homework or queries about habits related to dental hygiene. Elizabeth waits until he isn't looking, then sticks out her tongue.

She turns back to the little soldier. Its uniform reminds her a bit of what her dad used to wear, in the old pictures.
Maybe he'd like it.
Her father is a pack rat with a weakness for old junk. His “finds,” he calls them affectionately. Back in Vancouver, most of these finds have been banished to the garage by her mother, who has a slightly less favorable view of the broken old clocks and model airplanes. Elizabeth pictures the new house and realizes that it doesn't have a garage. She wonders briefly where the collections of old
Time
magazines and foreign Coca-Cola bottles will make their new home and has a feeling she knows. She has a vision of her mother surreptitiously hauling out the little bottles at night, hiding them in garbage bags and leaving them at the side of the road. She feels some sympathy toward her father, then hardens her heart.
It's his fault for moving us across the country
, she tells herself.
What is it he's always saying?
Actions have consequences, Elizabeth
.

She checks the tag that's dangling from the doll's foot: two dollars. The price is right, and besides, she's quickly running out of time. Her dad's birthday is tomorrow. Elizabeth opens her purse and rifles through it for change. She knows it's in there somewhere; she remembers tossing in a handful of coins earlier on.
Katie was right
, she thinks, pulling out a sticky, half-eaten lollipop covered in bits of tissue.
I do need a real wallet
.

Katie. Elizabeth feels a wave of homesickness overtake her.

“Can I help you, dear?” An older woman hovers behind her.
The homeowner, presumably
. Elizabeth hastily drops the sucker back into her bag.

“The doll, please.” Elizabeth gestures toward it. She fishes for coins again with her other hand.

“Interesting, isn't it?” The woman picks it up. She looks at it fondly. “Found it on the side of the road not far from here. My grandkids used to call it ‘the soldier baby.'”

“It's cool,” Elizabeth agrees. She pauses. “Would you take a dollar fifty?”

“One seventy-five,” the woman counters. Elizabeth grins.
Tough old lady
.

“Deal.”

Elizabeth watches as she wraps it up carefully in newspaper, sealing the ends with Scotch Tape.

“There you go.”

Elizabeth takes the parcel and thanks her. She tosses it into her bag, relieved. Even if her dad didn't like it, he'd almost certainly pretend to. He was that sort of father. When she was a little girl, he'd always been overgenerous with praise for her works of “art”: scribbles of crayon on the backs of napkins, misshapen pottery, paintings where the colors had mixed together to form an unattractive shade of brown. He'd kept all of it.

Where is Dad, anyway?
Elizabeth surveys the street. People wander about, trying on old jewelry and thumbing through ancient issues of
National Geographic
.
How could so many people come out in this heat?
She looks over again at the old man in the suit and feels almost faint. In Vancouver, everyone would have been at the waterfront on a day like this.

It was one of those street sales where one family plans carefully for the day, only to find themselves in competition, at the last minute, with all of their neighbors, who—taking advantage of the free advertising—spread out beach towels and crocheted blankets on their lawns and try to cash in on de-cluttering their homes. Elizabeth walks by a pile of paperbacks with missing covers and one of those old bouncy seats for babies.
Is that vomit on it?
She makes a face.
Yuck
.

Although she pretends she's just letting her dad drag her along, that she's humoring him, Elizabeth secretly enjoys these sales. You never know what people might be giving away. Most of it is junk, of course, but every so often, you find something that makes you forget about all the moth-eaten sweaters and the ties with cartoon characters on them. Once she found a yellow leather jacket with a faux-fur collar. The yellow was perfect: the color of fresh butter. She still gets compliments on that one.

“Miss, would you like some lemonade?” A blonde girl with pigtails waves at her. A boy stands next to her. He's a bit older—maybe a year or two—and brandishing a pitcher.
Miss? Ha
. Elizabeth smiles. She watches them wistfully. She'd been too shy to have a lemonade stand as a kid. It was the kind of thing you did with a brother or sister.

“Sure, I'll have some.” Elizabeth begins another search for coins, cursing silently. This time she comes up with a stale, half-eaten peanut butter cookie that she bought at the Vancouver airport.
Gross
. She looks around for a trash can but doesn't see one. Resigned, she tosses the cookie back in her bag.

“That'll be one dollar.” The girl sticks out her hand.

“A dollar?” Elizabeth raises her eyebrows. “Isn't that a bit much?”

The girl gives her a hard look. “The heat drives up demand.”

“How old are you?” Elizabeth stares at the pigtails.

“Eight.” She still has her hand out.

The brother gives Elizabeth an apologetic look. “Our mom's an economist.”

“Right.” Amused, Elizabeth counts out four quarters. “There you go, I guess.”

The lemonade is a bit too sweet, but it's cold. She drinks it quickly; she's thirsty from the heat. She isn't used to this kind of weather and isn't sure she wants to be, either.
What would I be doing in Vancouver right now? What are Katie and Elise doing today? The beach?

Elizabeth recalls how her dad first broke the news about the move. Anticipating her reaction, he'd brought home Pad Thai for supper, her favorite. For weeks after, she hadn't been able to look at the stuff; even the thought of rice noodles made her ill. The other news—that he was shipping out in August—came later, over dessert. She should have known the Rocky Road ice cream was a kind of culinary bribe. Elizabeth stares down at her flip-flops and feels a fresh wave of resentment. If her dad was going to Afghanistan, why couldn't she and her mom have stayed in Vancouver?

“Liz!”

There he is.
Finally
. She waves and walks over.

“Find anything good, hon?”

He's clutching a pair of clunky old lamps. Elizabeth looks at them and recoils.
How much did he pay?
She thinks of how her mother will react to the lamps.
Better you than me, Dad,
she says silently.

He's still talking. Loudly. “I saw some necklaces over there that you might like.” He gestures a few houses down. “Beaded stuff, you know? That hippie stuff you always—”

“Thanks, Dad.” Elizabeth cuts him off quickly, cringing.
Why does he have to talk so loud? And use embarrassing words like
hippie
?
She looks around to see if anyone heard, then she remembers that she doesn't know anyone here.
The upside to moving across the country
, she thinks wryly.
Yell away, Dad
.

“Did you find anything interesting?” He peers into her bag. Elizabeth pulls away. “Hey!”

“Sorry, sorry. Did you?”

“Maybe.” She's terrible at keeping secrets.

“Not sharing?” He looks hurt.

“Maybe it's a secret.” She puts a heavy emphasis on the word secret.

“Huh?
Oh
. Okay. I see.” He reaches over and tries to ruffle her hair. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Elizabeth ducks, embarrassed. “Dad!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

They walk together. The new house is only a few streets away.
Should I offer to carry one of those lamps?
Elizabeth looks at them again and groans. The air is thick with humidity; it's too hot for any kind of heavy lifting or being helpful so she decides not to.
It'll be worse than this in Afghanistan
, she reasons. He should be prepared.

“Liz—this way.”

Startled, Elizabeth turns; she doesn't have a very good sense of direction. At night, she keeps turning the wrong way to the bathroom from her bedroom. Even with no one watching, she feels stupid. Who gets lost in their own house?

“Do you think Mom will like these lamps?”

Elizabeth looks at her father in disbelief.
Is he joking?

“I'm thinking they'll look good in the living room. What do you think?”

Elizabeth searches for a diplomatic response. “I think you should ask her.”

They reach the front door of the new house. Tall and narrow, it is the opposite of their squat little bungalow back in Vancouver. The real estate agent called it a “Victorian”; Elizabeth figures that's some kind of adult double-speak for ancient. The brick is painted a color that isn't white and isn't beige but an in-between shade. Elizabeth's favorite part is the door, which is bright red. She holds it open for her dad, who is still struggling with his cumbersome purchases.

“Phew,” he says. “It's hot out there. Humid.” He drops the lamps onto the ceramic floor, and the sound reverberates through the hall. “Amanda—you home?”

Elizabeth kicks off her sandals and navigates her way through the maze of boxes. She notices one in her own handwriting labeled “underwear.”
How did that end up downstairs?
Discreetly, she kicks it to one side.

“Where have you two been?” Her mother sticks her head into the hall from the kitchen. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she looks sweaty despite the blasting air-conditioning. “I've been home for an hour. What happened to unpacking?”

“There was a yard sale.” Elizabeth avoids her mother's gaze.

“A yard sale?” Her voice rises. She comes into the foyer, brandishing a box-cutter. She waves it, looking dangerous. “We haven't even unpacked the junk we already have!”

Elizabeth looks at her, wary. She stares out at the hallway full of boxes and feels guilty; she never should have agreed to go.

“This house doesn't even have a garage, John. We discussed this—” Her mother stops talking and gasps. She's spotted the lamps.
Here it comes
, thinks Elizabeth. She takes two steps back and braces herself.

“What. Are. Those? You're not honestly thinking those are coming in the house, are you?”

“What's wrong with them?” Elizabeth's father looks miffed. “They're really nice. I thought they could go in the living room.”

“The living room! They're orange-and-green plaid.”

“So? They're early twentieth-century Scottish, I think, very interesting—”

“Interesting? I think you mean ugly. I don't care when or where they're from, our living room is painted red, for God's sake—”

Time to make my exit
, Elizabeth thinks. “Guys? I'm going to my room to unpack.”

They don't even hear her now; they're too busy arguing intensely. Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth grabs the box containing her underwear and retreats upstairs.

. . .

“One of my patients recommended this place to me.” Elizabeth's mother leans across the table and offers her a container of Shanghai noodles. “He said they do great takeout.”

Elizabeth takes the box and unceremoniously dumps some on her plate. She pokes at it with her chopsticks. The noodles seem soggy, and the broccoli is wilted.

“They definitely don't look like Asian Garden's noodles.” Elizabeth thinks of the birthday meal they celebrated for her father last year, in Vancouver's Chinatown. This food doesn't look nearly as good. For one thing, it's all gray.

Her dad takes a bite of his General Tao chicken. “This isn't bad.” He offers the foil container to Elizabeth, who peers inside and makes a face.

“No, thanks.” She reaches for an eggplant dish. “I'm thinking of becoming a vegetarian.”

Her father looks up, surprised. “Since when?”

“Since seeing this General Tao.”

“Funny.” Her mother takes the chicken from her dad, picking and choosing from among the pieces, and adds three to her plate.

“What kind of person would recommend this place?” Elizabeth toys with her eggplant. It's too mushy; the consistency reminds her of white bread soaked in milk. “Does he have a taste bud disease?”

“Yes, actually.” Her mother pours herself a glass of wine. “It's an entirely new disease. I discovered it. I'm going to be famous. Also rich. The other dermatologists at the practice are all really jealous.”

“Great. Maybe we can pay someone to unpack all these boxes, then.” Elizabeth takes a tiny bite of her noodles and makes another face. She puts her chopsticks down.