The Dollhouse

Chapter 42

THE Haverbrook Harvest took place on a warm day, the kind where the sky is so bright and artificially blue it seems too picturesque to be real. The flower fields peeled into bloom,and the houses along the suburbs were all opened up, the smell of corn and sweet apples wafting through unbolted windows.

The streets were packed. Festivities and stalls lined where cars usually cruised through, the community event bringing members of government and folk bands; families browsing through local produce, all rich orange and golden with ripeness.

Rudy made us go through the plan again. We would make our expected appearances - in case of rousing suspicions, then return to the empty house and grab our belongings, packing only what we could spare to take. Finally, Sam would bring Sherri to the back of the church graveyard a half an hour before the fireworks began.

"And I guess we figure it out from there," Rudy finished.

I asked him, repeatedly, whether he was really okay with what was going to happen. He'd betrayed Arabella in several ways already.

But cutting her from his life? It would be the ultimate treason.

His overcast eyes, as grey as the moodiest of storm clouds, did not shift. Who could have known, an academic overachiever - with everything, his cotton and cashmere - had a streak of defiance that could not be killed.

"It's not me you should be worried about."

And that made me even more nervous.

I got ready, dressed up in a white dress that made my skin look like sour milk. Either that or it enunciated the delicate veins popping from my papery skin, lines of purple and blue underneath the surface. The mirror made my body appear distorted, or maybe it was my mind playing tricks.

By four o'clock, we were due to walk down.

We wouldn't have time to linger later on in the night. As shoes were being put on and the sound of keys jangling came from downstairs, I found my feet coming to a stop. The Dollhouse's peculiar appearance had made quite the impression on my former self, and now I knew every harrowing inch of each story. The creepy tree in the yard that scratched against the window of my bland bedroom, the old piano and the smiling doll collection, not to mention the hidden relics in the depths of the basement.

The sugar pink and mint green didn't scream perfection. It wasn't the American dream. I could no longer feel anything but disgust.

Violet came down the stairs slowly. She, too, probably sensed the invisible force that chained us to this place, where we had gone through our own versions of emotional pain. Then she smiled and she was Violet again, red lipstick and a figure-hugging sweater dress that made her look as alive with feminine energy as she had always been.

So we walked down the streets, a dysfunctional family of five. Children with candy ran past screaming, the smell of fertilizer coming from a table of potted plants, and then we were truly in the thick of it. The very same road I walked down in winter, wrapped up with strings of Christmas lights had glowed like fireflies. Now, Arabella joined the other woman at the bake sale, and Edgar was soon distracted with the open auction at the church.

My attention was diverted by a couple of Amish woman wandering past, bonnets covering their plain hair. When they saw me staring their eyes dropped down to the ground in modesty. It was rare occurrence to see Amish folk wander in to town - and brave of them to do so, because I knew some neighbors had voiced distaste towards their solitude.

Betsy and Lorna were leaning against two sides of an apple cart, shielding their eyes from the sinking afternoon sun.

"The cops have been patrolling around like they're expecting a riot," Lorna started, as we got close enough to them. She was pretending not to notice a few teenagers laughing and pointing at her from behind the stalls. With a jolt, I recognized the sharply vivacious girl from somewhere before.