The Dollhouse

Chapter 4

SINCE the homewrecker had sunk her claws into Daddy, my mother's drinking habit had gotten out of control.

Mom had always liked a drink. She possessed the admirable combination of me and my sister's best physical traits - Violet's round face and navy eyes, and my auburn hair, arranged in a disheveled bob. You could understand why my father fancied her.

But after he left, my mother would begin the everyday routine of intoxication.

You got used to Mom passing out on late night. You got used to the simple cooking, and how she managed to pass as elegant in her pencil skirt and stockings. In the tired mornings, not opening the curtains was second nature.

Because you didn't have to anticipate the hangovers.

For it was a daily ritual.

I could clearly imagine the events of that day. She drives her daughters to school, with a one-handed wave and a half-hearted "have a good day." She wears sunglasses, because the piercing morning sunlight is enough to cause a migraine.

She hopes the cops won't notice her dodgy parking. Uses her keys to stumble through the door. Back to the dark house, it seems like a gift to be alone. She finds she's too disorientated to go to the office today; so she goes to the kitchen to phone up her unsympathetic boss. The decanter has been hidden, but she knows where to find it.

The burning taste of whiskey floods her mouth. She knows this is irresponsible but she doesn't care. Her head screams in pain. Perhaps a lie down would be best for her. Maybe some pills, to help sleep it off.

However, Christine Fitzgerald had never thought about alcohol poisoning.

The visuals were horrible. When Daddy sent me to the store to get bread, I sneaked into the town library to look up what the conclusion actually meant. According to a journal, it was when you consumed too much and your blood alcohol content was considered toxic.

The thought of choking on vomit was enough to give me nightmares.

I could understand why Daddy thought Mom was a bad parent. We didn't live in a domestic dream. But there were some things he would never know.

Like the reason why we weren't allowed to walk home.

What happened to me was shameful. A tormenting stigma, that left me cold and alone on a woodsy highway. This is what the press call a modern American horror story, but it was nothing to do with a strange attacker. No, it was all because of a field trip.

In 1963, we were one of the first classes to visit the newly built Space Needle.

There was a boring bus trip involved. Everyone in my middle school class was crammed inside. Things were thrown, kids were yelling, and teachers would be rushing around with clipboards. Joyce Barnes was sat beside me.

"Isn't it exciting? It's supposed to be real tall. What a futuristic building! Of course you'll partner up with me, won't you Lydia?"

"Of course."

The girls in my middle school class were nothing like me. They seemed to have their own little gangs, swapping secrets and gossip.

I had always been two steps behind.

It didn't help that my only friend was Joyce.

As nice as she was, Joyce Barnes was one of the most boring teenagers you could ever know. Known for her braces and bad haircuts, she didn't exactly perform well in social situations. Joyce desperately wanted to be friends with everybody, which often resulted in people referring to her as that girl that tries too hard.