Doll Hearts

by Colleen Clayton

  “Julianne, you seem frustrated,” she says stepping over some trash and then reaching out to rest her hand on my shoulder.

  “That’s because I am,” I say, tensing up at her touch.

  She takes the hint and removes her hand.

  “I know it’s overwhelming,” she says. “But try to understand that this is a process. It takes time. And if your mom doesn’t work through this, one item, one feelin’ at time, then her behavior will only continue. Obsessive-Compulsive Acquisition is very difficult to treat.”

  “But it’s been almost an hour and we haven’t moved one inch,” I say, looking around at the mess. And I try not to whine but I really can’t help it. “And if this place isn’t cleaned up, like, today, I have to go to my dad’s for the whole summer and she’ll be stuck here alone.”

  Ginny sighs, purses her lips, and shakes her head.

  “You’re thinking short-term, Julianne. I mean, yes, we could send your mother away for a few days and clean this place up. We could do that. And at the end of it you’d have your house back and everything might be okay for a while. But we wouldn’t have gotten to the origin of her pain. Stripping your mother of control is the worst thing we can do. She has to work through this and understand why it is that she does what she does.”

  “But she’s never going to let go of this stuff. I know her,” I say, trying not to cry in front of the weird, Alabama fruit-loop that I don’t know. Ginny looks at me closely.

  “Look. You’re what, almost eighteen?” she says. “You have one year left before you head off to college, right?”

  I nod, wipe at my eye.

  “Very soon, you get to leave this behind. And you should. If your mom doesn’t get well and fix her situation, it’s not your fault. You owe it to yourself to live your own life, a life unburdened by your mother’s addiction…”

  I hear a “but” in her voice.

  “…but she is trying. This is a huge, huge step Julianne. Me being here? She doesn’t have to do this but she is. So we owe it to her to give her a break. This problem will not fix itself over night. It took years to get to this place and it may take years to undo this damage. I can help her organize the house but she’ll also need intensive, regular therapy with a psychiatrist, likely even medication. This is day one, hour one, so try to relax.”

  And then, all of a sudden, we hear screaming coming from outside. We hurry out to find my mom up in The Junk Detective’s truck. She looks like she’s going to murder someone.

  “I never approved this! This wasn’t part of the deal!” she says, throwing eyeball daggers at Ginny and Billy.

  “What? What’s happening? What’s going on?” Ginny says, breathing hard, a hand pressed to her chest.

  My mom shimmies down out of the truck while holding a trash bag.

  “He’s taking stuff that I haven’t gone through yet!” she yells.

  Rob and Carla, who have set up base camp at the end of our driveway, are getting out of their Magic Genie Maids ‘n Movers mini-van now. They stand back but are craning their necks, trying to hear what’s going on. Ginny glares at Billy as he tries to defend himself.

  “But it was out on the patio!” he says, as we all follow my mom over to patio picnic table. “I thought that meant it was fair game!”

  My mom opens the trash bag and dramatically pulls out four boxes and lines them up on the picnic table in a row. I can tell from the boxes that they’re Ashley Drake dolls, probably some kind of set. And these boxes are the older design which means the dolls are vintage. Billy was about to make off with a sweet stash. He could unload these dolls on eBay for a thousand dollars easy.

  My mother stares at Billy.

  “Get off my property,” she says, “before I call the cops.”

  “But—,” he says.

  “Billy, you need to leave,” Ginny says. “We went over the procedure and you—,”

  “I don’t mean just Billy,” my mom says, turning on Ginny. “I mean all of you. Get off my property. Right now.”

  Ginny’s eyes widen. She wasn’t expecting that.

  “I realize that a trust has been damaged here, Christine,” Ginny says, “And I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that. But we can’t let this particular setback derail our progress. Our whole—,”

  “I don’t want to hear any more of your feel-good, southern belle, hipster psycho-babble!” my mom says, her voice getting louder. “Now, get out. I mean it! Take your filthy squad of thieves and get off my property!”

  “Mom!” I say, “You can’t throw them out! This has to get done!”

  She looks at me and breaks down crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobs, “This isn’t how I thought things would go either. I thought it would be easier. Faster. But I need more time.”

  “We don’t have any more time,” I say. “If we don’t get this place cleaned up, I have to leave tomorrow! This mess cannot wait!” I wave my hand toward the house and accidentally knock one of the dolls into the grass.

  My mother gasps and makes a grab for it. Watching her lunge to save her stupid doll makes me want to slap her in the face. I grunt in disgust and storm to the house.

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” my mom yells after me. “I’ll fix it, I will! I just need more time!”

  I stomp to my room to pack my things. I stuff clothes and crap into a bag while texting my dad.

  Mom failed. Congrats, you win.

  After a minute or so, my phone rings. I don’t pick up so he leaves a message.

  J-bear, nobody wins here. I know this is hard. But we’ll have a great summer, I promise. I’ll wait for you at the Rourke’s.

  I text Lindsey.

  I’m getting so trashed tonight. And I’m having a dozen fried Twinkies at MELT.

  I do one last sweep of my room and bathroom. I decide I’m only taking the bare necessities. Lolo, my summer clothes, and my laptop. To take anything else feels too permanent, like I’m giving in somehow and accepting not coming back.

  I am most certainly coming back.

  I don’t care if this place is a freak zone and my mother is the mayor of Banana Town. It’s my freak zone and my mom needs me. He can’t make me abandon her and, once I turn eighteen at the end of summer, he can’t make me do anything. I load Lolo and my bags into my car and then head on over to Lindsey’s.

  5.

  “Gee, thanks, mom,” I say, looking into the three-fourths empty cup of beer that Lindsey just poured for me. We left the restaurant about a half hour ago and are at the party. She fills her cup to the brim and then hands the keg hose to the guy behind us.

  “Pace yourself,” she says, “We don’t need another Clementine’s Revenge night.”

  She would be referring to the time that we got drunk at Taylor Anderson’s house in seventh grade. We broke into her step-dad’s liquor cabinet and drank his Clementine-infused vodka. Even though we only had three shots each, it hit me harder than everyone else at the sleepover. I threw up all over Taylor’s One Direction comforter and was hung-over for two days.

  “Plus, you’re the Desi-D and have a long day tomorrow anyway,” she adds, giving me a friendly hip check before walking out into the yard.

  She’s right. I have a long day tomorrow. The drive, the ferry, the step-family drama. My dad went back to the island a couple of hours ago and while he wanted me to follow him, I managed to talk him into letting me stay one more night in Lakewood. And by talk, I mean argued.

  I’ll be your prisoner all summer. It’s not like I’m staying at a homeless shelter, it’s the Rourke’s.

  You shouldn’t be driving that far by yourself. Especially in an oil-leaking heap that looks like something the junk yard threw away. Have you ever driven on a freeway? I can’t believe your mother let you buy that car.

  I LIKE my car.

  Do you even know how to get there?

  I’m not an idiot. God, you’re getting everything you want. I’m leaving my home and my mother. I’m giving up a job at the Au
to-Ra-Ma. Can’t I have this one freaking night to say goodbye to my friends!?

  He finally gave in on the condition that I let him meet me on the land side in Catawba so he can drive my car onto the ferry himself. I have to leave by nine in the morning if I’m going to make the eleven o’clock ferry.

  I grab a bottled water out of a storage bin of ice and stuff it into my purse then follow Lindsey through the crowd toward the bonfire and the familiar voices of our friends.

  “Hey, Tic and Tac!” Celinda Monroe yells, “Get yeh skinny asses ovah here!”

  Celinda moved here from Brooklyn in sixth grade and her accent is as thick as the day she arrived. There’s two lawn chairs so Lindsey and I sit down.

  “What’s up, chickies,” Lindsey says, taking a chug of beer.

  “Her blood alcohol level, thas wassup,” Natalee says, strumming some notes on her ukelele. “That girl…she is wasted.”

  Natalee looks at Celinda and then laughs one of those cackling, fitful laughs that only other drunk people understand.

  “Schools out, slags!” Celinda declares, “The Summer of Sick starts tonight!”

  Then she lifts a completely blackened, flaming marshmallow from the fire. She blows it out and pulls it from its metal pronged roasting stick, cussing under her breath as it burns her fingers. She starts assembling s’mores and passing them around.

  I take a gulp of beer and think about how my Summer of Sick has turned into the Summer of Suck, about all of the fun my friends will have without me. July Fourth fireworks, ghost hunting at Turkeyfoot Cemetery, teen dance night at Bellbottoms. The list goes on.

  Just as I start to sink into a pity party for myself, I hear my name called. Brandon Wright and his friend Markus Childers are walking toward the fire.

  “Ooh, boys,” Lindsey whispers in my ear as Brandon walks around the fire to stand in front of me.

  “Can I talk to you for a second, Julianne?” he asks, chewing on the inside of his lip.

  I hesitate and start to get tongue-tied, but then quickly pull it together.

  “Sure,” I say, and settle back into my chair.

  “Privately?” he says, glancing from me to Lindsey then back to me.

  I shrug and get up to follow him. Celinda holds a s’more out to him when he passes.

  “Vous aimez un s’moah, Jean Claude?” she says.

  He shakes his head. “Non, merci,” he says, then cracks a grin. This makes the girls burst into laughter.

  “What about me?” Markus says, holding his palms out. “Voo-lay-voo-koo-shay, I’d love a s’more!” Then he swoops in to claim my empty seat.

  Brandon and I walk over to stand under a tree near the fence, farther away from the crowd. Being upright, I feel the beer starting to take effect and get the overwhelming desire to reach out and rub my fingers over the short, blonde hairs of his head.

  “I heard you’re driving to your dad’s this weekend,” he says, “That he lives on Middle Bass?”

  I take a sip and eye him suspiciously. How does he know my summer plans and driving itinerary? I panic at the thought that Lindsey might have blabbed my personal business to people. She’s usually really good at keeping secrets.

  “Yeahhh,” I say. “Why?”

  “I have class with your friends over there, Veronique and Nathalie? French Four. The New York girl, she talks a lot, it’s hard not to hear sometimes. Anyhow, I’m going that way tomorrow, too.”

  “To Middle Bass?”

  “No, not…I mean to Sandusky. It’s on the way. I start work there Sunday.”

  “Sandusky? Why so far?”

  “I got a job at Cedar Point for the summer, they have dorms for the employees and I start this weekend so—,”

  “Cedar Point? Like you’re going to run amusement park rides?”

  He looks down and his voice gets quieter.

  “I’m going to draw caricatures. Like the exaggerated portraits? Regular portraits, too.”

  I think of the sketch he made of me and Babette and my stomach registers what Lindsey calls a “CBA Flip.” A Cute Boy Alert Flip.

  I clear my throat, “They’re paying you to draw?” I say, “That’s kind of cool.”

  He nods then finds a random spot on the tree trunk to put his finger, starts tracing absently at the bark.

  Flip, flip, flip…

  He turns back to me, “So, I was wondering if we could caravan, if I could throw a couple bags in your trunk if you have room. I can’t carry much on my bike. I’ll give you gas money.”

  “You’re going to ride a bike all the way to Sandusky?” I say, laughing, “That would take like, all—,”

  “No,” he says, laughing too, “Not that kind of bike. A motorcycle.”

  “Oh!” I say, mortified. “Derp. Got it.”

  I take a sip of my beer, look around, tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. He stands looking at me, drops his head a bit like he’s waiting for me to say something. Then it hits me.

  “Oh! Yeah, sure! You can throw some bags in my car. No prob.”

  We exchange cell numbers before moving back to the fire to join what is now a drunken sing-a-long of Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline. I squeeze into Lindsey’s chair with her and Brandon takes a seat on the grass at my feet. He slides a couple of marshmallows onto a stick and holds them over the flames. We all sing and carry on and it sounds pretty good even though only a few of us know all of the words.

  Brandon lifts his browned marshmallows from the crackling fire and blows on them lightly. When the marshmallows have cooled he holds them out to me with a smile. I smile back and slide one off; pop it into my mouth. I look at him in the firelight and a wistful feeling ignites inside of me. It floats around like a tiny, glowing ember, lighting up the darkness of my mind’s periphery. It traces the years of seeing, but never really seeing, Brandon Wright.

  6.

  The GPS is trying to take me the quickest route to Brandon’s but I make a detour so I can drive by my house first. It feels weird. As I turn down my street, I feel like I’m stalking myself.

  My mom’s car isn’t in the driveway. It’s Sunday morning so that means she’s out prowling the west suburbs of Clevelandia in search of vintage collectibles. We didn’t have a proper goodbye. We left it with her clutching the doll on the lawn and me storming off. I tried to call her this morning but I didn’t do it early enough. It’s a struggle to get her out of the house the rest of the year but when May rolls around and garage sale season hits, my mom is a junky in need of a fix. On Saturdays and Sundays when the sun crests the horizon, a bell goes off and she’s becomes like an excited dog. Out the door like a shot.

  Our grass has grown substantially almost overnight. Lawn care is not something I’d thought about until now. The mowing, the trimming, the weeding. I’ve done it all since I was twelve. I don’t think my mom even knows how to start a mower. I’m supposed to be at Brandon’s house in ten minutes so I text him that I’m running behind.

  Pulling into my driveway, I roll the windows down to give Lolo some fresh air. She’s in her cage in the backseat and it’s starting to get warm out. I walk through the gate of our privacy fence, into the back yard and over to the shed. When I open it up, I can’t believe it. I mean, I can believe it, I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so fast. In two days, she’s managed to turn my tidy little shed into a storage unit for her crap. The shed and the yard are the only places other than my bedroom that are mine. I earned them, I keep up with them, and they’re mine.

  I shouldn’t be surprised, though. When my dad moved out, the lawn was the first thing she let fall to ruin. That’s how the neighbors found out about the divorce. No one knew a thing until one day the lawn was knee-high and our once manicured flower beds were overrun with crabgrass. People started asking questions, especially the old grouch who lives next door, Mr. Phelps. Finally, we got a note in our mailbox that was signed by like everyone on the street, warning us that if we didn’t cut the grass, a call would be made to the health department. T
hat’s when I pulled the mower out of the shed and started my career as an unpaid landscaper.

  I throw boxes and bags of God-knows-what onto the lawn and unearth the mower. The gas can was full the last time I mowed but now it’s dry. I’m hoping that there’s at least enough fuel in the tank to cut the front. With the privacy fence, nobody will notice if the backyard isn’t done. Well, except for Mr. Phelps. He spies on people from his second story window, especially on me when I’m mowing in a bikini top.

  I drag the mower around front, set it to the lowest setting, and commence with carving out my perfect lines. Before long, it’s all shaved down into a symmetrical pattern of lush green ribbons. Patches of mutant dandelions and ragweed are threatening to swallow up the front steps and walkway, so I kneel and start yanking them up. Mid-yank, I notice a large manila envelope stuffed between the storm and main door. A doll catalog, surely. Stomping up the steps, I grab it and toss it onto the mower and then finish up the weeding. I’m filthy and dripping by the time I’m done. Dirt under the fingernails, scrubby knees, green feet. Sweaty, sweaty, sweaty.

  I head around back with the mower and stupid envelope. Just as I’m about to chuck the envelope into the Dumpster, I glance down and realize it’s not a catalog but from a bank. It looks official. IMPORTANT! RESPOND IMMEDIATELY! it says in big bold letters. I tear it open and read the first page.

  NOTICE OF INTENT TO FORECLOSE. You have missed one or more payments on your mortgage loan or you are otherwise in default. If you do not bring the loan current you are at risk of losing your home. Action will be filed in court as soon as 90 days from the postmark of this notice. See enclosed documents for further information and instructions.

  There’s a thick stack of papers to fill out and send back. I guess to try and fix it?

  I start sweating even harder. Foreclosure? Are you kidding me? The postmark is from two days ago, so that means we have eighty-eight days until we are homeless. I can’t deal with this right now. Even though I’m not supposed to, I go inside because I need to cool off, wipe down, and sort myself before getting back on the road. I try to get some of the dirt out from under my nails, some of the grass stains off my knees and feet but its ground-in at this point. I don’t have time for a full spa treatment, I’m already late, so I just do the quickie dreaded sink bath and get moving. It’s not like he’s going to be riding in my car or anything, so maybe he won’t notice I’m a total pit-monster. I refill my water bottle, then, after once again saying goodbye to my room, wade back through the abyss.