Lessons from a Dead Girl(41)

I picture her on the other side of the door, leaning her head against the wood, wondering what she should do. “All right, honey. We’ll talk later.”

Later.

What happens next? Will the police come? Will they take me away?

I sink back down under the water again and listen to the water swish around me, wishing it would swallow me whole.

On the far wall is the door to the doll closet with the worn brass handle that Leah and I touched so many times. I know the nesting doll is in there, all broken on the floor.

Not long after Leah and I became friends, I made the mistake of telling her that when I was really little, I used to think that my dolls and stuffed animals came alive when I left the room. She teased me, saying I still believed. She grabbed my old Curious George and punched him in the face. I laughed, just so she’d stop. But inside, I was cringing. After that, even though I was way too old to believe such a thing, I still imagined that the dolls who watched us in the closet hated Leah. I imagined them giving her the evil eye when we weren’t looking.

I stand up in the tub and let the cold air rush over me. After I dry off, I put my robe on and tie it tightly across my waist. Then I reach for the handle to the closet and open the door.

As soon as I smell the room, old feelings rush through me. I hear her voice, feel her hand.

I can’t do it.

How can I do it?

Slowly I force one bare foot forward across the cold wood floor. Then the other. I breathe in deeply before reaching my head in and pulling the tiny chain that clicks the lightbulb on.

It’s the same as we left it. The little chairs and table are still there. The dolls sit neatly in the corner, still watching. Except for a few bags of outgrown clothes piled in the middle of the room, it looks exactly the same. And on the floor, there’s the nesting doll, all in pieces.

Finally, I can’t hold my breath anymore and let it out. When I breathe in again, I smell the dust and must and memories.

The little doll halves look up at me with their permanent, knowing smiles.

Slowly, I bend down and pick up the pieces. First the smallest one, then the next smallest. I fit them each inside the other until I close the last shell. I push the two pieces together snugly and glance over at the tiny space where it all started just one more time, before I click off the light.

Back in my room, I put the doll on my dresser, then find my warmest pajamas, grab my ratty old Curious George off the bookcase, and get into bed. Jack snuggles up next to me. I rest my face on his back, and he starts to purr. Soon his fur is wet with my tears. He pulls away, then comes back to sniff around my face. I make room for him next to me. I lean my face against his back again and listen to his deep, soft motor.

The doll stares at me from the dresser, smiling despite it all. I close my eyes, but I still feel her watching me. I can’t take it.

I squeeze the doll in my hands as I carefully open my bedroom door. The house is quiet. I walk silently down the hall, through the darkened dining room, the kitchen, and to the back door. I slip on my mother’s garden clogs, grab the flashlight by the hook next to the door, and step out into the dark.

The grass looks gray-green in the moonlight. I wait until I reach the edge of the woods and the short pathway that leads to the big rock before I turn on the flashlight. I walk the path quickly, still clutching the cold, hard doll in my hands. I feel the trees watching me, their branches ready to reach out and grab me. I want to turn and run back to the house. But I don’t. I get to the rock and kneel down next to it. I place the doll beside the flashlight in the dried leaves. The ground is soft there, and I dig up the leaves and dirt with my hands until I have a hole big enough to bury the doll. I place her in face up, then quickly cover her with the dirt and leaves. I shine the flashlight on the spot. It looks the same way it did before. No one will find her here.

I turn off the light as soon as I reach the backyard safely. Then I quietly make my way back to my room and climb into bed next to Jack and George.

Tomorrow, I think to both of them. Tomorrow I will tell the truth.

I fall asleep to images of Leah. We’re twelve again, cantering around the riding ring, doing our victory lap. Leah waves the strip of newspaper in the air as she turns back to me. “We did it!” she yells over and over again. I wave my own empty hand in the air, following behind her, smiling so hard my face hurts as the crowd cheers, and I make a secret wish that this moment will last forever. That we’ll just keep riding around and around, laughing and waving to each other.

But I wake up alone in my dark room instead. And when I close my eyes again, I dream that she’s riding away from me. And instead of waving the strip of paper over her head like before, she’s looking back at me, waving her empty hand. Waving good-bye.





What happens when you finally decide to tell the truth and no one listens?

Three weeks have passed since Leah died. The Greenes held a private service for family only and buried Leah in a tiny cemetery near their home. Leah and I used to ride our bikes here and dare each other to go inside the gate, though we never did it.

It seems strange to me now, as I sit here under a wide oak tree in front of Leah’s grave, that we were ever afraid of this peaceful place.

I tried to tell the truth about what happened that night. First to my parents, then to the police. But they all said it was clear from the lack of skid marks on the road and the alcohol and drug content in Leah’s blood what really happened.