The Dollhouse

Chapter 32

WHERE was I?

My temple hammered even before I opened my eyes, sticky and clamped together with sleep. Some near rustling sound had roused me from my rest, a reluctant druggy sleep that felt like I was dragging myself out a kinder dimension.

I was tucked in soft tartan blankets, still dressed in yesterday's clothes. God, at least I hadn't performed anything drastic I'd come to regret. Hazy and cramped with a wicked hangover, I bolted up and looked around the room wildly - yellow painted walls, wonky hand-crafted bookshelves with dozens of children's books, soft pastel portraits and a guinea pig chortling in a cage next to a bowl of dry food.

There was no memory swimming in the depths of my brain that even resembled this room.

Disturbing thoughts surfaced - had I been kidnapped? Had I fallen into another lifetime?

The hallway was eerily empty, like a still photograph. A wooden cuckoo clock nailed to the wall opened its little doors, a yellow plastic bird signifying the eighth hour of the morning.

I heard music humming through the floorboards. A weird, shaky feeling embraced me and I took a few steps down the hall, where photographs of babies smiled down at me. Only then did a lone family vacation shot reveal my whereabouts; a thinner, round-cheeked Jamie held a large rainbow trout with his father. It had been taken by a shoddy photographer - Nick's father's head was cut off.

"How are you holding up?"

The breath was stolen from my lungs. I backed away from the photograph with so quickly, my bare feet tangled in a ball of yarn spilled out over the carpet. "Oh, for the love of -"

Beatrice carried a plastic washing basket on her hip. It was brimming with laundry.

"I hope you didn't mind staying in my son's room," she spoke in such a kind voice I suddenly felt drenched with shame, with embarrassment, with self-loathing. "The canvas's were done by Joseph, of Nick's favorite film heroes. They were inseparable when they were younger. Brothers!"

God. How much had she seen? Beatrice was the loveliest mother alive, with the scent of talcum-powder and kiwi fruit - and here I was, always blubbing or wasted, causing a gigantic pantomime. 

My words evaporated.

"Your sister came banging on the door at dawn," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Wanted to come in and wouldn't leave until she saw you were safe."

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry for all the fuss. Truly." I frowned, my fingers combing through the knots of my hair. It was ratty from last night's disturbed sleep pattern.

True to Beatrice's word, Violet was sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee mug with steam spiraling into the air in transparent wisps. Golden light streamed through the curtains. Her face was all puffy, like she'd been crying.

"Hey, squirt, you want an orange juice?" she offered, as if it was her house.

She hadn't referred to me by the childhood taunt for years.

You think at this stage I would've grown accustomed to weird things happening, but it felt totally bizarre pouring a glass of OJ in this friendly dining room. Nick emerged from the kitchen in a dressing gown, biting into wholemeal toast.

I pretended I didn't resemble a resurrected corpse. "Hey."

He sat down opposite me with a newspaper. I noticed bunny slippers on his feet.

"Hey yourself."

The absence of the radio harbored a shared silence. I wonder if Violet also felt like an intrusion upon their perfect, sunshine-splashed morning? It was okay when we fooled around at school, when Nick let me copy his math homework and we ducked into empty classrooms during lunch to avoid the break monitor.