The Doll Garden

Two

My father's limbs were crumbling under his flesh. Most of his skin was wrinkled, still dark, but now old, and peeling off the bone from the excessive weight loss.

He'd been propped back in his black reclining chair beside his desk, feet kicked up, reading one of his favorite books. He hadn't heard me enter until I was several steps away from him. We had made eye contact. But that was all I could take.

"Jenna," he'd whispered when he saw me.

He probably didn't think I noticed him struggling to breathe. But I did. His chest rose and fell. With all the strength he had left in his lungs, he wheezed out my name again. His voice was winded. Completely. Mirabelle was right. He looked awful.

"Hey, Daddy." I could feel my own breath leaving me.

"You haven't changed one-bit, sweet pea," he drawled, smiling the best he could.

Perhaps not on the outside. My baby face hadn't gone away. I had only matured into it. Other than that, I wasn't the same little girl he'd raised in this environment. The last six years had taken a toll on me. I'd ducked and dodged every invite back home. All family events—not that we had much family outside of our small circle anyway. Everything.

I coughed out a weak chuckle. "You still put too much faith into me."

His weak smile widened, his pearly white teeth showing the slightest bit. There wasn't much of a conversation after that. I wouldn't allow it. He'd barely gotten a few words in when I'd had enough. I walked out of his study.

Then, I ran. I ran. And I ran.

Until I found myself hiding in the all-black gazebo, standing tall in the middle of my father's garden. I couldn't remember how long I'd been here. All I remembered was fleeing down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the sliding doors to the backyard.

None of the maids, or any of the butlers, tried to stop me.

I'd made quite the entrance in the kitchen. I hadn't seen their faces, but I could hear them venting their concerns. My focus had been on the detailed, brown-tiled floors. They were polished, like the waxed wooden floors of the grand lobby. The kitchen had always been the only floor that was made of ceramic tiles.

"Little miss Jenna. How long are you going to hide in there?" I saw the pair of squeaky clean, black dress shoes walking to the gazebo first. I followed his shoes up, eyeing his gray slacks, then the black dress shirt hugging his frame in a firm grip. I saw his face next.

I should've known it was him. There were few people here who I recognized instantly when they said my nickname. Henry's slight British accent weaved in and out of his words. His olive skin shimmered under the tinted sunlight beaming down on him.

There was a tray in his hands, one steaming cup of tea sitting on top.

"For you," he said, smiling. "How long has it been?"

"Six years, give or take," I said, sucking in a deep breath.

The smell of the tea hit my nose. I sniffed a few times, reveling in the scent. It was the scent I remembered the most. The one I loved and favored. Lipton tea with two squeezes of lemon and three spoons of sugar.

"Oof"—he raised one of his hands to his chest in a playful manner—"that is far too long."

"True. At least I didn't forget about you all. Especially you. You're the main reason I passed all of my math exams."

Henry chuckled. "That is true, I suppose."

I watched him place the tray down onto the mini round table in front of me. He'd taken a step back and held his hand out. I took that as my cue to take the tea, laying it down on the flat table surface, and blowing on the steam.