Doll Hearts

by Colleen Clayton

  When my dad calls to tell me they’ve arrived, a security guard takes me by golf cart over to the marina. My dad and Melody are waiting on the pier in front of the speedboat, all huddled together in heavy discussion. When they see me, my dad hurries over and starts trying to help me out of the golf cart like I’m a maimed, senior citizen. I shirk him off, insist that I’m fine.

  On our way over to the boat, he immediately launches into how this job is not working out. That it’s too physically demanding for someone with my condition, too far if something goes wrong, today being a perfect example. Melody nods along in agreement.

  “I didn’t pass out because I have diabetes,” I argue, “It was just heat exhaustion. It’s hot today. Anybody could have passed out.”

  Their faces look skeptical.

  “It’s true,” I say, stepping into the boat and putting on my life vest, “People pass out all day long at the park. They have a first-aid station that caters solely to passed-out people. They have enough Sunny Delight and Saltines over there to survive the apocalypse.”

  “Well, I’m not convinced it wasn’t your diabetes,” my dad says, sliding on his vest and then sitting down behind the wheel, “At least partially. You have certain limitations, Julianne. I know you don’t like hearing that, but it’s true.”

  “Mom would never say that to me,” I mutter.

  “Yes, I’m sure she wouldn’t being that she is not hooked into the same reality as the rest of us. Let’s just head back to the house. We’ll discuss the next step over dinner.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” I say. “No next step.”

  He turns away, shakes his head, dismissing me again before starting the engine.

  Melody settles into the bucket seat next to my dad and I take the bench behind them. When we pull out of the no wake zone and out onto the lake, the wind blows my hair around and makes my eyes burn and water. I’m so sick of this lake I could scream. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and then bring my knees up and hug my arms around them.

  “You okay?” Melody says loudly, swiveling around a bit in her seat. We have to more or less yell now in order to hear each other over the roar of the wind and engine.

  “No, I’m not,” I say, “I want to go home!”

  “We’ll be there in about a half hour,” my dad says over his shoulder, picking up speed.

  “Not your home! Mine!”

  He looks back at me, his eyes hurt; he turns back to the lake.

  “The nurse said on the phone that your glucose is low,” Melody says, “There’s some pop under the seat next to you.”

  “I had some juice,” I say.

  “Pop is better,” she counters, “It has high-fructose corn syrup which absorbs into the—,”

  “God, I know!” I bark, “You think you’re telling me information that I don’t already know, Melody!?”

  My dad fires back a warning look.

  Glaring at Melody, I flip the adjacent seat open and grab a can of Pepsi out of the storage space. I crack open the tab and start drinking, staring at her. I don’t come up for air; I tilt my head back and suck the entire thing down while burning a hole through her with my eyes. She stares back at me like I’m a crazy person. When I’ve drained the can, I pitch it behind me and into the lake.

  “Happy now?” I say.

  Ripping off my uniform, I sling it into the corner of the bedroom and then pull on shorts and a tee shirt. After sulking on the bed for about an hour, I decide to clean Lolo’s cage and then let her crawl around the floor sniffing for treats I’ve hidden here and there. I refuse to come down for dinner. I’m not breaking bread with those two tonight. No way.

  So, Melody brings up a tray.

  “Bison burger and vinaigrette coleslaw, 45 carbs,” she says through the door, “I’ll just set it here on the hall table.”

  After an hour of hunger striking, I can’t hold out. Begrudgingly, I bring the tray into my room and devour it. Even ice-cold, the burger is melt-in-your-mouth delicious.

  Since I’m not quite depressed enough, I open up Facebook. The Cedar Point page feed is buzzing about the party tonight.

  Jack from England: Can’t wait for yer fancy Yankee party!

  Gabrielle from Seattle: Zone four is taking the gold tonight, baby!

  Tiffany from Atlanta: Will there be liquor?

  CP Moderator: No. And don’t bring any or you’ll be asked to leave. Possibly fired.

  Amber from Dayton: Booooo…

  I write Dieter to tell him I can’t come tonight. I’m not sure how often he checks his Facebook but, technically, I’m covered as far as a no-show is concerned. I switch to Lindsey’s page and see new pictures—literally the pictures went up one minute ago. The girls are all dog piled up with a group of people I don’t know. They’re tailgating at the fireworks and the pictures contain all of the tell-tale signs of a good summer time: hot guys in tight tee-shirts, red Solo cups, peace fingers, a random dude photo bombing with his shirt pulled up. Everyone is having a ball.

  I close my laptop before I start commenting. Living vicariously through the internet will only make me feel worse. Instead, I lie in bed stewing in FOMO and thinking about how much I need to get out of here and get my life back in order. Before long, the four walls of the room start to close in on me.

  When I hear my dad and Melody’s door shut for the night, I gather up my blanket and step out into the hall. Tiptoeing through the darkened upstairs, I take care to walk delicately past their room and avoid a particular floor board that always sends a loud creak splitting through the house. A cool breeze blows in from the window at the stairwell. When I finally get down to the kitchen, I open the back door and step quietly out to the patio.

  I curl up on the cushioned chaise and look out at the blackened lake. Tears start working their way to the surface but I fight them back because I’m right under my dad and Melody’s window. I listen to the wind blowing across the water and wonder if this might just be the shittiest day ever. If not, it is definitely in the running with Let’s Get Organized With Ginny.

  Fireworks pop and crackle in the distance and I’m thankful that I don’t have to actually see them because we’re on the north side of the island and facing Canada. But still, I can imagine them just fine. Images of Brandon kissing Adriana under a star-spangled sky grow quite clear in my brain. Then visions of my mom sitting alone in The Nest take over. She’s watching July Fourth shopping shows and ordering American Dolls out the yang, I know it.

  Since I can’t stop the tears, I focus on swallowing the sobs. My throat aches and I wish I’d brought water. Eventually, I fall asleep, huddled under the blanket. I dream that I’m trapped inside of a dark, empty waterglobe that’s filling up. I bang on the glass with my fists and scream but nobody hears me. The water keeps rising until I’m straining on tiptoe for the air-pocket. Then I sink and flail and search with my hair floating around like seaweed. The drowning doesn’t come which is a surprise. I start thinking I might be okay, that I might live to see another day, but then something brushes against my foot making me jerk. I know what it is so I don’t even look; I don’t want to see those big lavender eyes staring back at me in the dark water. I start swimming as fast as I can. Around and around in circles I swim, getting nowhere at all, the Happy Mop Top Doll chasing after me.

  The sound of a screeching seagull wakes me at dawn and I sneak back inside. As I step past their door, I hear Melody giggle and my dad say: Hey, now…watch yourself, young lady.

  Ugh. Gross.

  I’m so glad my room is at the far end of the hall.

  I go to sleep again and then jump awake around nine o’clock. Immediately I’m filled with this sort of dread. Maybe I was having another nightmare I don’t know. I search my mind for the source of this deep down anxious feeling. It’s like I’ve done something terrible, like something is very wrong in the world but I don’t know what it is. I run down the list in my head: Passed out at work and missed all the fun; Dolls, dolls, dolls; Mone
y, money, money...

  Then it hits me.

  I jump out of bed and frantically crawl along the floor.

  Scrabbling along the hard wooden surface, I look under the bed, under the dresser, calling out her name repeatedly but she’s nowhere, Lolo’s gone. Right before I go screaming through the house that we need to form a search party I look over and see her. She’s rolled up into a ball and tucked into the folds of my uniform that I threw in the corner when I came home yesterday. I pick her up and apologize over and over. I lie back on the floor and kiss her soft pink belly over and over.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I forgot about you, I’m sorry.”

  And that’s when I hear them below me. Through the vent in the floor, I can hear my dad and Melody talking.

  “I’ve researched it and I think it’s worth investigating,” Melody says. “We should at least take her in for a consultation. It works very well for a lot of kids.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’s time we looked at this option seriously.”

  What are they’re talking about? Psycho-therapy? Boot camp for wayward teens? I slide Lolo back into her cage and then hurry back to the vent, really pressing my ear against it so I can hear. My dad is talking more formally to someone, like maybe he’s on the phone now.

  “Yes, I’d like to make an appointment for my daughter with Dr. Pakesh. She’s a patient already. Her name is Julianne Bell.”

  Dr. Pakesh is my endocrinologist, my diabetes doctor.

  “Yes, I’d like to bring her in to discuss starting pump therapy.”

  My heart starts pounding and a boiling rage works its way up my neck and into my brain. How could they make this unilateral decision without discussing it with me?

  “Oh, you have openings this afternoon? That’s great, I think we can make it by two or two-thirty. Would that—,”

  I bang on the vent with my fists, “I can hear you!” I yell.

  “You know what, let me call you right back,” my dad says.

  I tear out of the room toward the stairs and they’re both already half way up, cutting me off at the pass.

  “What are you doing!?” I scream down the steps at them. “That’s my decision! You can’t do this without talking to me first! You can’t make me get a pump!”

  “We’re not making you do anything,” my dad says, holding out his hands like slow down, take it easy. “It’s just a consultation. It could make your life easier in a lot of ways, Julianne.”

  “How? By having a piece of equipment attached to me all day long?”

  “They’re very small and discreet,” Melody says. “Cell phone-sized. You can’t even see them with clothes on.”

  “But I’ll still know it’s there!”

  “But you won’t have to give yourself shots all day long,” my dad says, “It will help keep your glucose in check so you can comply to your treatment plan more effectively.”

  “I adhere to my treatment just fine!” I say, “I have excellent control!”

  “Actually, I don’t know that you do,” he says.

  “You need to get a check-up, anyway,” Melody adds. “Your insulin needs refilled. While we’re there, you can discuss the pump.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” I say. “I know how to get to Dr. Pakesh’s office. I’ve been driving myself to my appointments since I turned sixteen. And what, are you stalking my insulin packaging for expiration dates, Melody? Seriously, get a job.”

  Melody blanches, shrinks down a peg. My dad looks at me with fire in his eyes but stays focused on his sole mission of controlling my life.

  “You’re not driving until you’re checked out by the doctor. Not after yesterday. I’ll take you.”

  “No!” I say. “God, you’re acting like I have some rare, delicate cancer or brain disease!”

  “I have your keys, you’re not driving. And you’re not going back to Cedar Point until I know you’re okay,” he says. “If I have to pull out the you’re still a minor card then I will. I’ll call the park and shut the whole thing down.”

  I scoff, cross my arms.

  “Just go to the appointment, Julianne,” he says. “I’ll take you to see your mom and you can spend the night at the Rourke’s and go out with your friends.”

  My mom? My job? My friends?

  He stands there dangling his carrots like a king waving scraps in front of a starving peasant. Bless you, milord, bless you. Truly, you are a benevolent king. Melody stands next to him like the Queen Bee minion that she is. Power-mongers.

  “You need the doctor’s excuse anyway, right?” Melody says. “They’re not just going to call you one in. They’ll want to see you in person.”

  Oh. Right.

  Whatever. Fine. I’ll go.

  It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t have to do the pump.

  Before we leave, I take a moment to Facebook Lindsey to gripe about my situation. There are messages from Brandon.

  I ran into Dana last night and she told me what happened. Are you okay? I wish you would have called me. I would have come and sat with you while you waited for your dad. Call me when you get this. Is there a landline at your dad’s?

  And then a second message is posted a minute later.

  The party was lame. I end up leaving early. (Alone, BTW) ;)

  I write him back.

  I’m fine. The heat just got to me. But my dad is being a brute and making me get a checkup so I’ll be gone for a couple more days. I’ll call you when I get back to work. Thanks for checking in. PS: I’m sorry that the party was lame (Lie). But I’m glad you left alone (Truth). ;)

  I don’t mention the landline number. I don’t want Brandon calling the house. My dad or Melody will end up answering it and ruining this part of my life, too.

  18.

  I’m having pump-buyer’s remorse and I haven’t even started it yet. Right now, it’s sitting in my bag at the Rourke’s waiting for me to hook into it like some kind of space cyborg. I start it tomorrow. Dr. Pakesh suggested that I nickname it to make it more familiar. Think of it as your new friend; a new part of you, she said. My dad and Melody ate that bit up and offered all kinds of suggestions on the drive home. The Pumpster, Pump Daddy, Little Pumpkin.

  “I’m going with Big Ugly Pump,” I said, then stuffed in my earbuds.

  I texted my mother that I was coming home for the night. I almost stopped into the house but she messaged me and told me she’d meet me for breakfast.

  I’m headed out for the night with Lindsey which is some consolation because I’ve really missed Linz. Celinda is working and Natalee has to watch her little sister and, though I would have liked to have seen them too, I’m kind of glad it’s just the two of us. Pulling into the Auto-Ra-Ma I moan to Lindsey about my problems. Specifically, about the hideousness of my pump.

  “So why did you get it, then?” she says, parking in our assigned spot.

  “The doctor hypnotized me with a snake oil spiel,” I say. “She had me watch this indoctrination video about insulin pumps that showed all these shiny-faced teens using their pumps and thumbs-up-loving every second of it. I bought into it hook, line, and sinker.”

  It’s true. The kids in the video were riding mountain bikes and eating ice-cream while a voice-over said things like: A pump can free you from a strict regimen of meals, sleep, and exercise! You can program it to match your changing lifestyle! No more worrying about those tiresome shots! It was like an episode of Wonder Gadgets right there in the doctor’s office. Before I knew it, I was saying: Sure, let’s do it. Let’s go man go!

  “Well, it sounds like it might be a good thing,” Lindsey says, turning the radio station to the correct AM channel before the movie gets started.

  I shrug and watch the opening cartoon on the screen. Mickey Mouse: The Haunted House. That’s tonight’s double-feature theme, classic hauntings. They’re showing Amityville Horror and The Shining next. Just as Mickey blows in out of the thunderstorm and goes to knock on the door of the spooky old house,
we get a knock on our window. It’s Taylor Anderson and she’s wearing the most adorable carhop uniform in the world.

  “Hey, chicas!” she says, waving at us while Lindsey rolls down the window.

  “Oh, my god!” Lindsey laughs, “You look amazing!”

  She does. The outfit is a riot and I temporarily put my jealousy aside to admire it.

  “Roll back so we can see you!” I say, brushing my fingers at her.

  Taylor skates backwards into the empty parking spot next to us. She does a twirl in her white roller skates which makes her royal blue mini-skirt and lace apron flare out. She come to a quick stop, puts her hand on her hip, blows a kiss over her shoulder and shakes her butt at us before skating back over. The outfit is girlish and cute but not in that babyish way like my sweep uniform. She’s wearing fishnets and the blouse is low-cut, buttoned down and sexy like a Halloween costume. Her eyeliner is all Cleopatra winged out and her hair is bumped-up with this matching pillbox hat pinned to it. It’s like she’s taken all of the best retro fashion trends of the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s, and combined them into the flirtiest uniform in the history of uniforms. Dana would go crazy bananas over this outfit.

  “I thought you were going to your dad’s for the summer, Jules?” she says, crossing her arms and resting them in the window to lean in and talk to us. Her legs move and sway underneath her like she doesn’t want to give up skating for even one second.

  “I am,” I say, smiling, “I’m just here for the night.”

  She blows a bubble and pops it quickly, “It sucks you couldn’t stay and work here. This job is the shizzle. My phone is freaking filled with new numbers,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows and smiling.

  “So things worked out with the new step-dad after all?” Lindsey says.

  “Number five’s a charm,” Taylor says, blowing another bubble, rolling her eyes. “He’s effing loaded.”