by Marina Cohen
Ten
Isaac refused to admit to sneaking into Hadley’s room and playing with the dolls. He was always messing with her stuff, moving things around, borrowing things—even after she’d told him a thousand times to stay away. She’d never had to share anything before. It was still a new concept for her.
To keep Isaac away from her things, Hadley helped him fly his kite. She tried to play catch with him, but she wasn’t very good. Instead they played badminton and croquet with rusty equipment they found in a box behind a recycling bin in the garage.
Gabe came over every morning. With nothing better to do, Hadley joined him. Together they explored the upper edge of the ravine, and even wandered into the woods along the intertwining trails. Despite his intense love of creepy-crawlies, he was beginning to grow on her.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Hadley stood at the edge of her yard, holding the eye up to the sun. Light shone through it, casting lacy patterns on the grass. “An eye.” She tucked it back into her pocket.
“Where’d you find it?” he asked excitedly. “Did you excavate it?”
“Actually, it sort of found me,” she responded vaguely. “In the house.”
His expression collapsed. Clearly he was expecting a more exciting response. He focused his attention on a worm that had strayed onto a rock.
“Did you know, in terms of sheer number, insects are the most dominant life form on Earth?”
“Nope.”
“Actually, they appeared over four hundred million years before humans.”
“Marvelous,” said Hadley. “So, er, how long have you lived here?” she asked, swatting at a fly. There seemed to be an extraordinary number of flies near the edge of the ravine.
Gabe picked up the worm, dug a small hole, and placed it inside. He pushed soil over the top, patting it gently so as not to harm the worm. “On the earth?”
Hadley rolled her eyes. “In your house.”
“All my life,” he said. “I was born in my house.”
“I was born in a hospital,” said Isaac, swooping in behind them, diving headfirst into the conversation.
“He didn’t mean he was actually born in the house, silly,” said Hadley.
Isaac watched Gabe’s every move, trying to imitate him. Except that Isaac dug up a worm first in order to rebury it, which sort of defeated the whole rescue purpose.
“I was born in my house,” said Gabe. He found another insect in distress—a beetle being attacked by ants. He dusted off the scavengers and set the creature on its way. “In the living room, to be precise. My mother’s never had a great sense of timing. She’s kind of spatially challenged, too. One time”—he chuckled—“she tried to fit a whole pineapple into a blender. And then she forgot the lid and…”
A sunset flushed across his cheeks as he explained in great detail the disastrous results of the un-lidded blender episode.
“So, where are your parents anyway?” Hadley asked, trying hard to sound casual.
“They travel a lot. For work.”
“Really? What do they do?”
“Mom is a nuclear engineer,” said Gabe. “Dad’s a long-haul trucker.”
“Wow,” said Hadley, eyeing Gabe with newfound respect. “So, what do they have in common?”
“Fuel.”
Gabe then subjected Hadley to several more bug stories seriously lacking plots. She listened quietly and even reluctantly helped with his experiments.
First, they placed half a teaspoon of sugar near an anthill and timed how long it took for the ants to notice. Next, they placed some honey on a tree trunk to see what sort of insect would be attracted first. Hadley hoped for a butterfly. But all they got were tons of flies. And more ants.
As the days passed, Hadley kept a watchful eye on the room above the garage, hoping to steal a glimpse of Althea S. de Mone. One day, Hadley nearly went right up to her door and knocked, but her mother stopped her. She said not to pester Ms. de Mone—she was old and needed plenty of peace and quiet.
“She knew my name,” said Hadley one morning at breakfast.
“What’s that?” her mother asked, pouring yet another bowl of Flaxy O’s.
Hadley sighed. Aside from tasting like wood chips, the cereal had a horrible effect on her digestive system.
“She said she knew her name,” echoed Isaac. He grinned at Hadley before shoveling a truckload of cereal into his mouth. He chewed loudly. Just like Ed. Hadley decided it must be genetic.
“Who knew whose name?” asked her mother. She was distracted by her kitchen cleanup and didn’t appear to be following the conversation too closely.
“Ms. de Mone,” said Hadley. “The day she came, she called me by my name before you introduced me.”
“She heard me say it when I came to the door.”
“But you didn’t.”
Her mother frowned. She stopped scouring the sink and stared at the ceiling as though replaying the scene in her mind. She waved a dismissive hand in the air like she was swatting a fly.
“I told her about you before that morning, Haddy. I told her all about you when we first met, the day Ed and I brought her the documents to sign the lease.”
“But…” said Hadley, “how did she know it was me? She can’t see, can she?”
“She’s not blind,” said Hadley’s mother. “She’s only visually impaired. Bright lights bother her. Now stop imagining things. She’s a lovely lady. The perfect tenant. She’s even invited you for afternoon tea. She said something about having baked a crumble…”
Eleven
One of Hadley’s Flaxy O’s went down the wrong way. She choked and sputtered. “She’s invited me for what?”
“I love crumble!” shouted Isaac. “What kind? Peach? Blueberry? Do you think she has any dairy-free whipped topping?”
Her mother’s smile quivered. “I’m sorry, Isaac. She’s only invited Hadley. It’s probably not wheat-free or nut-free anyway. It wouldn’t be safe for you.”
Isaac nodded sadly as the crumble rug was yanked out from under him. A twinge of guilt tugged at Hadley’s insides, but part of her was secretly delighted to be a she and not a we for a change. Plus, Hadley was excited to ask Ms. de Mone about the dollhouse.
“What time?” she asked.
“After lunch.” Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Be polite. And don’t overstay your welcome.”
The morning hours bled into one another like a wet watercolor. Before long it was lunchtime. Gabe was over again, asking if Hadley wanted to go into the woods with him—he was hunting for snakes. He seemed truly disappointed when she told him she had other plans.
At quarter past one, Hadley stepped out into the warm glow of the afternoon. Across the street, two neighbors stood in front of a flower bed. A little girl was trying to do a cartwheel on the lawn. They all stopped and waved in unison when they saw Hadley. She fanned her fingers halfheartedly. She’d gotten used to the tingly feeling in her hand, not to mention the overly friendly neighbors.
She’d made it halfway to the garage when the screen door of the apartment flew open and Althea de Mone appeared. In one hand, she held a casserole dish. The other hand waved eagerly. “Right on time!” she announced.
A soft breeze carried the tasty aroma of baked apples, cinnamon, and brown sugar straight to Hadley’s nose. Her legs moved independently of her brain, and before she knew it she’d climbed the cast-iron steps and was standing in the doorway. The delicious scent filled the apartment, drawing her inward.
“Come in, come in,” said Althea de Mone, smiling at Hadley over her shoulder as she led the way inside. “It isn’t often I have the pleasure of guests.”
Hadley’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. She gave the room a quick scan. There was a floral sofa on one side with a coffee table in front of it. A bed lay opposite the kitchenette. They were identical to the three pieces of furniture in the dollhouse.
To the left of the kitchenette sat an old wooden trunk—the kind you might find
packed with blankets, extra sheets, or towels. Althea set the casserole on the low table in front of the sofa and directed Hadley toward it.
“Smells delicious,” she said, sinking into the squishy cushions.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the tea.”
On either side of the dish sat two powder-pink plates and two dainty silver forks. Althea de Mone retrieved two matching pink teacups and two saucers and placed them beside the plates. She returned to the kitchenette and then sailed back with a silver teapot and a bowl filled with a pale yellow sauce, half custard, half cream.
When all was set and ready, she placed a heaping spoonful of crumble on Hadley’s plate and a smaller portion on her own. To each she added a dollop of the thick, rich cream. Then she carefully poured the tea, and a musky aroma mingled with the apples and cinnamon.
“I hope you like it,” she said. “It’s an old recipe.”
Hadley lifted a forkful of crumble to her mouth. It was sweet and nutty and practically melted on her tongue. Maybe it was all the Flaxy O’s she’d been eating, but Hadley swore she’d never tasted anything quite so delicious. She quickly ate another forkful and another. Althea de Mone smiled enthusiastically. Hadley smiled back. She could see her own reflection in Althea de Mone’s glasses.
“Do you have to wear those all the time?” she asked.
“Too much light hurts my eyes. I can’t see at all if it’s too bright.”
“I’m sorry…,” said Hadley uncomfortably.
“Oh, don’t be sorry, dear. It’s my retinas—afraid my cones are defective. But my rods work quite well. They’re what allow you to see in the dark. That’s why I keep the apartment dim.”
Hadley didn’t know a thing about cones or rods, but she thought it must be horrible not to be able to see well. While she ate, she couldn’t help but examine the old woman further.
Her skin was like an apple left too long in the sun, but between the creases there was a smoothness that made Hadley think Althea de Mone must have been really beautiful when she was young. There was something cozy about her, too, like an old silk pillow.
Hadley had barely finished her last mouthful before Althea began spooning another portion onto her plate. “This is great,” she said between mouthfuls. “What’s in it?”
“The apples are the secret. They’re from the root cellar. The house keeps them fresh and crisp.”
Hadley’s mother had said something about there being a lot of food in the root cellar, but Hadley didn’t think it was still edible. It was kind of strange eating food someone else had left behind. She stared suspiciously at the crumble remaining on her plate.
“There, now,” Althea de Mone said. “Isn’t this pleasant?”
Hadley nodded.
“Try the tea.”
Hadley picked up the dainty cup and took a tiny sip. It tasted like cranberries. And nutmeg and cloves. “Tasty,” she said. “Reminds me of autumn.”
For a few minutes neither spoke. But it didn’t feel awkward—it felt like they’d known each other forever.
Hadley took a few more sips of tea. She set her cup down gently. “Ms. de Mone,” she began.
“Granny. Please.”
Hadley paused, worried the word wouldn’t come out right. But this time it slid easily off her tongue. “Granny … How long have you lived here?”
She rubbed her wrinkled hands, her expression thoughtful. “Quite a long time.”
It was exactly what Hadley wanted to hear. “You obviously knew the previous owners?”
Althea sat back and sighed. “The house has had many owners.” She picked up her teacup. “So many people have come and gone. I’m afraid I’m losing track.” She took a sip. “I guess I’m just lucky no one has evicted me yet.”
“Do you know there’s a dollhouse that looks exactly like our house?”
“You found it?” she said cheerfully.
Hadley nodded. “In the attic. Do you know anything about it? Who made it?”
“Well,” she began, “I’ve heard tell the original owner of this house moved here from Boston. He had the house built especially for his wife—he wanted her to be happy in her new home. The dollhouse was a gift to his daughter. His only child.”
Hadley’s mother had been right. The dollhouse was an antique. Possibly worth a lot of money.
“There’s a doll that looks like you,” Hadley said.
Althea chuckled. “That old thing?” She took Hadley’s empty dish and walked toward the kitchen. “I made it myself. Do you really think it looks like me?” She held up her chin, then turned her head to the right and the left, flashing Hadley her profile from various angles.
The mystery was solved. “Exactly like you. But wasn’t it hard to make, what with your eyesight and all?”
She patted Hadley’s head. “As I said, dear, my rods are fine. I see quite well if the light’s not too bright.”
They chatted for some time about all sorts of things—the town, the woods, the neighbors, and the weather. Hadley told Ms. de Mone all about her old apartment, about her worries on starting a new school, and about how much she missed Sydney.
Finally, Hadley stood and stretched. “I’d best get going.”
She stepped toward the drawn drapes. She wanted to know if she could see her bedroom from the window. She was about to open them when she remembered Althea de Mone’s light sensitivity.
“So soon?” said Ms. de Mone.
“I told Mom I wouldn’t overstay my welcome.”
“All right.” She chuckled. “But promise you’ll drop by again soon?”
“Sure,” said Hadley, secretly hoping it would be for more crumble. She picked up her teacup and saucer and set them in the kitchen sink.
“In fact,” continued Granny, “why don’t you drop by tomorrow? Late afternoon. They should be ready by then.”
Hadley stopped at the door. “They?”
“Run along, now,” said Althea de Mone, shooing her out the door. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Hadley’s mouth stretched into a wide grin. Having a grandmother was just as she’d imagined. A fuzzy feeling filled her insides as she descended the steps. She hurried down the driveway and into the side door.
Perhaps it was the crumble, but that night Hadley went to her room with the warm feeling still lingering in her stomach. She had a grandmother—at least a substitute—and it felt good. It even made her feel better about sharing her mother with Ed and Isaac.
She was about to turn out her light and settle into bed when she glanced at the dollhouse. Althea de Mone’s doll lay in the room above the garage. The other three dolls were missing.
Twelve
Papa surprised me yesterday with another gift. It was, as I expected, a doll. But not any ordinary sort of doll—this one looks exactly like me!
It has long blond braids and wears a pretty pink dress quite similar to the one Aunt Cordelia has sent me from Boston. The round cheeks and sharp nose carved into the pale wood are mine—even the lower lip juts out a little too far, just as Frau Heinzelmann claims mine does. But the most incredible of all the doll’s features are its eyes.
Papa made them himself. He told me that he began with a white glass tube and a torch. He held the tube over the flame until the glass was soft enough to separate just the right amount. Holding the piece over the flame, he blew gently to create a bubble.
He holds his finger up and blows on it to demonstrate.
Next, he says, he heated a rod of pale blue glass and inserted a glob to form the perfect iris. To this, he joined layers of silver and gray twisted canes for depth and sparkle and to give the iris a lifelike color and quality.
He points to his pale gray eyes, which are identical to mine. I gaze deeply into them and see the silver folds he is talking about. Then he makes a silly face, startling me. I laugh out loud and he laughs as well. Once we catch our breath, he continues.
Using a narrow dense black rod, he tells me how he fixed the pupil. H
e says this was the most difficult task. If he did not get the pupil exactly in the center, my doll would appear cross-eyed. He crosses his eyes and puffs out his cheeks. We both burst into giggles.
When Papa leaves for the glasshouse the next morning, I examine the large sparkling eyes—almost too large for the dainty little face. They seem so real—so lifelike—I’m certain they follow my every move. Unfortunately, the doll is far too large for the dollhouse, but Papa says he will have some smaller dolls made soon.
“What does a kobold look like?” I ask Frau Heinzelmann, setting my doll on the kitchen table in front of me.
“Why, whatever it fancies, of course.”
Frau Heinzelmann pounds slices of pork into thin, tender pieces. Each time her wooden mallet descends, the whole kitchen shakes. “It can appear as a cat or a marten. A child. Or even a candle’s flame.”
My doll hops with each assault of the mallet, but I catch her before she topples to the ground. I run a finger along her braids. “And where does it live?”
Frau Heinzelmann dips the pork pieces into a bowl with raw egg and then drags them across a plate of bread crumbs, which stick to the cutlets.
“Under the threshold of doors, beneath old steps, behind the stove, or in the fireplace…”
“I want to see it,” I say, eagerly eyeing the shadowy corners of the room.
Frau Heinzelmann melts a slab of lard in a large cast- iron skillet. She will fry the breaded pork into crisp schnitzel. After that she will make an apple strudel using apples kept crisp in our root cellar.
There are many pickles and preserves in the cellar as well. Frau Heinzelmann has prepared them all in lovely glass jars Papa made especially for her. Papa is getting used to her cooking, which he claims has added inches to his waist.
We bring Mama’s food to her room, but even when she feels well enough to eat she only nibbles a bite here and there. Mama has grown so pale and gaunt, Papa and I worry terribly for her health.
“Kobolds do not like to be seen,” Frau Heinzelmann says, tossing a cutlet into the sizzling lard. The meat hisses and snaps, the lard frothing up on its sides. “But if you catch one, it might do as you please. Perhaps tidy your room for you. Or polish your shoes. Or grant you a wish.”