The Dollhouse

Chapter 10

HAVERBROOK Hollow had been our home for just over a month now. With the earthy open field, the crops and distant rolling hills were lifted straight from illustrations in an old-fashioned story. Every day we took the hot, crammed bus to the tiny village school, I still half-expected to be handed a quill and inkwell on the way in.

It was a Saturday. My father had traded his business suit for rolled-up sleeves as he cut the lawn outside. The odor of freshly-mown grass was drifting through the open windows. A gentle breeze lifted the corner of my notes, homework spread across the kitchen table. Arabella was baking apple pie.

Was that stupid? I had dithered with the question for the past five minutes.Was I stupid, for asking? Was there a logical reason? Damn this local history project.

Just go to the local library, I urged myself.

That's ludicrous, another voice argued. She's only your stepmother. Ask, you coward.

"Why does nobody live past the flowerfields?"

Arabella didn't even turn around. Today she wore her yellow sundress, complete with her black hair twisted up straight out of Breakfast at Tiffany's. How very fitting. "Have you done your chores?"

"Why, yes."

"Good. No one lives there because it's Pennsylvania Dutch Country."

"The Amish live there," Daddy had walked in, to my intense relief. Grabbing some orange juice out of the refrigerator, he planted a kiss on her cheek. "Looks great."

Her shoulders grew rigid. She pushed past him to put the pie in the oven, with a comment muttered so viciously I hardly could catch it– "Good thing I didn't make it yesterday, because we damn well know it would've been cold by the time you were home."

Daddy sighed. He turned his attention away from his wife.

"Lydia, I've been thinking about your birthday," his tone became very upbeat all of a sudden. "It's not every day a young lady is fifteen! Look, I wondered when you finished your homework we could go shopping later? For an early birthday present - your sister mentioned you needed a new dress. What do you say?"

Before my brain could process his sudden congeniality, Arabella had interrupted us.

"We have an appointment for the mortgage this afternoon, Percival!"

"Bella, just re-schedule for another day. I have a whole lifetime left for sitting in boring old offices looking at finances."

"Well, why can't Violet take her?" she demanded. Although her voice was not ringing with impatience, the question sounded like a threat.

"Because she's my daughter, and it's my money. What do you say, kid?"

Yikes. In between seconds, I absorbed my stepmother's statuesque nature, her raised chin, and the way her fingernails tapped on the kitchen-top. My father's encouraging smile, his dark eyes - identical to my own - boring into me expectantly.

"Sure," the words slipped out like satin. As smooth as somebody who wasn't internally panicking.

The boutique store was quite a few miles out from town. Underneath the harsh lighting, I stared at my own image in the mirror. An assistant with magnificently bobbed hair and false lashes had a pale smile plastered on her face.

"It looks nice, honey. But if you don't mind me sayin' so, it's just like the last four you picked." She yanked the zipper up so harshly I winced.

This had all been orchestrated to make me feel better. I knew that. Daddy felt guilty, so he was making a special fuss of me, even though I wasn't fifteen until July.