The Dollhouse

Chapter 37

THE days that came afterwards were awful, awful, awful.

Ronald had suffered a sudden heart attack. There was nothing that could be done, according to the doctors. The attack was too intense. He died before he even reached the hospital.

He had ran straight out of the office the moment they told him. Nick said he knew something had happened the minute he was told to sit down, and offered a cookie. They never gave out any kind of special treatment at the office, not even when Jimmy Simons got a concussion on the football field last season.

Betsy acted as if she just had an arrow pierce her chest. A little 'oh' of shock leaked out of her body, then she staggered backwards like one of the wounded.

What can one say, in a time so awful? What did people say to me when my mother died? I couldn't recall any of it. Nothing but the whirlpool of my own depression, dragging me down until I was left struggling to even form a thought.

There were mutters in the yard, and the news traveled to our family through the gossip at the church.

No one had seen any of them for days after that - not Beatrice, Nick, Jamie or Joseph - all of them stopped attending work or social events, and no one braved a telephone call. On my way walking home from the grocery store I picked some flowers in memory, but when it came down to it, I was too much of a coward to deliver them.

As horrible and self-centered as it was, it got me thinking of my own father. How Violet had spotting him alive and well, sitting and drinking a concoction of spirits not even an hour away. My heart burned, and somehow it got stuck that way.

When I started leafing through the phone books, it was Ronald's face I pictured. How we sat down for casserole, and the way he looked at his wife like there was no one he'd rather be sitting next to.

Imagine growing up with that for your whole life! Parents, who actually loved each other! No games about money, or affairs - plain and simple. That was all I ever wanted.

A tear of sympathy splashed on to the yellow pages.

I sat, putting shillings into the pay phone until my hands hurt. Hours had passed. I hadn't talked to anyone properly in days.

The worst thing was, I couldn't explain why it hurt so much. The unfairness of what had been robbed from Nick and his brothers, from the community, and from me. It was that alone that fueled me in my mad frenzy; and after the what felt like the thousandth consecutive call in a row, something happened.

My pen slipped through my fingers. A car rolled by, and the driver threw a can from the window. It rebounded off the glass, but it hardly registered with me.

"Oh my god," I whispered.

Scooping up my bag, I sprinted all the way home. I didn't even stop even though it felt like my heart was going to shrivel up in my chest; the mint green and baby pink blurred in my peripheral vision - and before I knew what was happening, my weight collapsed into the door. Yanking open the handle, I heard movement in the living room.

"Violet? Rudy? Where are you? I've got something I really need to-!"

Unexpectedly, Arabella was in the lounge.

She was resembling her old image more than ever. Perhaps the ripeness of the divorce had crippled her for a while, but now her face was painted, jet black hair set perfect. The odd stillness cloaked the room. It was as if she was deliberating something in a deep trance.

It reminded me of those scenes on television of war widows, who lamented the harrowing news of their spouse's death.

It ordinarily wouldn't have alarmed me. At this hour, she was usually embarking on her weekend grocery shop downtown; she was certainly ready, kitten heels on her feet and bags by the door. My stepmother turned around to see who had walked in, and it was then I got a glimpse of the book she was holding in her hands.