The house was suddenly so bright it glowed. Hadley slipped the eye back into her pocket and drew the drapes. Soon she’d need to wear dark glasses—like Granny de Mone.
She stepped into the hall and paused in front of Isaac’s room. She held her breath as she pushed open the door. The room was still bare.
As she descended the steps, she became aware of the now-familiar tingling feeling that had traveled from her arm up to her shoulder and down her leg. What was wrong with her? Was she suffering from some kind of strange illness that caused both numbness and hallucinations? It was the most frightening and yet the most plausible explanation.
Hadley’s mother stood facing the stove. She had changed clothes. She now wore a floral sundress Hadley had never seen before. And an apron. She rarely wore dresses and she never wore aprons. She looked like she’d walked straight out of an old black-and-white movie—the kind where everyone always looks perfect, even when the world around them is crumbling.
She retrieved a casserole dish from the oven and placed it on the stovetop. At first Hadley worried it was more caramel-peach French toast, but the room didn’t smell the least bit sweet.
The table was draped with a starched white tablecloth. Three white plates sat in a perfect triangle. Three sets of cutlery had been placed on white napkins folded precisely and crisply on a diagonal.
Hadley’s mother turned slowly. As she drew close, Hadley got a clear look at her face. A polished layer of makeup gave her skin a flawless appearance. Her eyebrows were plucked into thin lines that arched high above her eyes. Pale pink shadow colored her lids and black mascara coated her lashes, making them seem extra thick. Extra long. Her lips were lined and painted to perfection with a muted red lipstick. She looked beautiful. And yet … fake.
Hadley cleared her throat. “What’s the occasion?”
Her mother smiled. “Just the usual.” Her face was porcelain perfect. Hadley was afraid if she smiled too wide it might crack.
Hadley glanced around the kitchen anxiously, and then lowered herself into a seat. She picked up a knife. She could see her own reflection in the clean, cold steel.
“It’s not dinnertime,” said her mother, steadying Hadley’s hand, gently forcing the knife back into place. “We eat at six p.m. sharp. Not a second earlier.”
Hadley cast her a curious look. “What is that?” she said, motioning her chin toward the dish on the stove.
“You know. Quinoa with toasted pine nuts, barley, and vegetables. Your father’s favorite side dish.”
Hadley barely managed enough spit to swallow. “You mean … Ed?”
Her mother’s eyebrows frowned—though her forehead remained eerily frozen. “Ed?”
Hadley’s eyes flitted from her mother to the three plates and back again. Her lips parted and moved, but she couldn’t manage to form words. She tried harder, but all that came out was an unintelligible squeak.
Her wish. It had come true.
She scanned the kitchen more carefully. The walls were no longer puce. They were pure white. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed right away. Something else about the kitchen had changed, too.
The entire room was spotless. Nothing—not one single thing—was out of place. The jars containing sugar and tea and oatmeal were neatly lined on the countertop from largest to smallest. There were no crumbs under the toaster oven, and the cord of the kettle was curled neatly around the handle. The empty steel sink gleamed. The countertop shone. The floor sparkled.
Her mother picked up the knife with the napkin and polished away Hadley’s fingerprints, as though getting them out was the only thing that mattered in the world.
“What are you doing?” said Hadley.
“Your father.” She smiled. “He’s very … particular.”
Hadley took a deep breath. Her voice was low and wispy. “Father … Where is he?”
“At work, silly. He’ll be home right before dinner. Like clockwork.”
Butterflies danced in Hadley’s stomach. Her father. Her real father. The man she’d spent her whole life longing to meet—the ghost haunting the hollows of her mind—was somewhere nearby. She was suddenly nervous and excited and a little afraid. She needed to prepare herself. She needed to be ready. She bounced into the hall toward the steps.
“I nearly forgot,” called her mother. “Althea de Mone dropped by earlier. She left you a gift. It’s near the front door.” Then she added quickly, “Make sure you get it before your father trips.”
Hadley stopped running. She moved slowly, curiosity drawing her toward the gift as though she were a fish on a wire. As she approached the doll, she drank in every detail—the crisp black suit, the dark hair parted and combed perfectly, and the eyes—the dark eyes—that seemed to be staring right at her.
Hadley had once read that a person’s eyes were windows to their soul. Gently, she lifted the doll and held it up to her face. She gazed into its eyes, but they seemed somehow vacant. And cold.
Her emotions flip-flopped. One second, she couldn’t wait to meet her real father. The next, she found herself missing Ed and Isaac. So much had changed in so little time; her thoughts and feelings couldn’t keep up.
Judging by the doll’s size, her father was shorter than Ed, but he was more solid. Ed’s doll had been flexible. Her father’s doll was rigid. Hadley was afraid if she bent him he would break.
Her mother’s words—not very nice—hovered in her mind. Hadley smoothed the doll’s hair. At least now she could put a face to those words. And there was nothing not nice about it. In fact, his face was perfect.
Hadley had always thought she might look a little like her father. A certain slant of the eye. The shape of her lips. Perhaps her long, skinny feet. But there was no resemblance. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment.
She walked up the stairs and into her room. Gently, she placed her father’s doll in the dollhouse living room. She moved her mother to sit across from him.
Hadley took a deep breath. Her mother said he’d come home just before dinner. She had most of the afternoon to sit around and wait. She had to find something to occupy her time or she’d drive herself crazy—assuming she wasn’t already there.
Granny, she thought. I’ll ask her about the doll.
Hadley’s mother had left the kitchen. She was now vacuuming the living room. Buckets, dusters, and an array of cleaning products lined the hallway. It was like she had turned into some kind of cleaning machine. Hadley was afraid to touch anything.
She left the house quietly and walked around the side. In the room above the garage, the dark drapes hung heavy and straight without even the slightest hint of movement behind them. Hadley climbed the metal steps leading to Granny’s apartment. Just as she reached the top, the screen door swung open. It knocked against the metal railing, tap, tap, tapping in the breeze. The wooden door was also ajar.
Hadley stuck her head inside. “Hello?” she called, but no one answered.
Perhaps Granny was in the bathroom or cleaning her closet. Hadley shifted her weight, suddenly worried. Had something gone wrong with her wish? Had Granny disappeared, too?
Invading someone’s private space was wrong. Hadley recalled how angry she’d always been with Isaac each time he’d barged uninvited into her room. But she convinced herself this was different. She had to make sure Granny was all right. That Granny was still there.
Hadley took a few tentative steps into the apartment, carefully searching the space. The bed was perfectly made, the sheets forming tight corners, the pillows fluffed to perfection. No knickknacks or magazines cluttered the sofa or coffee table. The kitchen was spotless, as though it had never been used.
Thunk.
Hadley searched the room for the cause of the sound. Nothing had fallen. Nothing was out of place. She searched again, her eyes coming to rest on the old steamer trunk. It was larger than she’d remembered—big enough to fit a whole person in it.
It was made of dark rustic wood, weathered and worn. The sides were bound and riveted with tarnished metal, and the hinges were uneven—as though a blacksmith had forged them a hundred years ago. It reminded Hadley of a pirate’s chest.
She reached out a trembling hand and pulled the clasp. Before she could lift the heavy lid, a hand touched her shoulder. She spun around, nearly falling backward over the trunk. Granny held her arm and steadied her.
“Hadley,” she said. “How nice of you to pop by again.”
“I—um—I’m sorry, I…” Hadley struggled to explain why she was inside Granny’s apartment without permission.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Granny de Mone.
“I didn’t mean to barge in. I couldn’t find you and I was worried.”
“You’re such a dear,” she said. “I was cleaning the root cellar. A glass of jam had smashed. It was all over the floor.” She placed an armful of apples on the counter. They were red and shiny and perfect.
“Well, the door was open, and I didn’t see you, and I heard a sound.” Hadley pointed to the old trunk. “What’s in there?”
“Just my carving tools and sewing kit—to make the dolls. And speaking of dolls, did you get my gift?”
“Yes,” said Hadley. “That’s why I came…”
“I knew you’d like it. You can add it to the others. Your mother. And me. I’m sorry I haven’t finished your doll yet. Just a few more touches and it should be ready.”
Hadley smiled vaguely.
“Then we’ll be the perfect family, won’t we?” She gave Hadley a squeeze. “Have a seat, dear, and I’ll make you some tea.”
She walked to the kitchenette, pulled a kettle from a cupboard, and filled it with water. She put some herbs into the silver teapot and added the water once it boiled. The scent was soothing. Granny served the tea and Hadley took a sip.
“Granny?” she asked. “Tell me more about the house. About the previous owners. Did they ever, well, say anything strange had happened? Why did so many of them abandon the place?”
Granny dropped her chin. “You’ve been listening to gossip.”
Hadley sat back on the sofa. “Maybe. But are you sure nothing strange ever happened to anyone else?”
“Well…,” she said slowly. “Remember I told you the original owner had the house built for his wife—to make her happy? And the dollhouse was a gift to his daughter? His only child?”
Hadley nodded, hanging on her every word.
“Well, the daughter—supposedly a lovely girl—well, one day, she was gone.”
Hadley swallowed. Her voice trembled. “Gone? As in disappeared?”
Granny shook her head slowly. “Gone as in died. Her parents went mad with grief. The woman had to be sent to a sanatorium. The father deserted the house, leaving everything behind. The furniture. Even the food in the pantry and cellar.”
Hadley shivered. Someone was dancing on her grave.
“They say the house sat empty for a long time after that. Like an old abandoned seashell. Then, new people bought it. They weren’t happy here either and left quickly. There have been several owners since.”
Hadley sat deep in thought. “What an awful story.”
Granny patted her knee. “That was a long time ago. Don’t think about it. You’re here now and everything is fine. Think happy thoughts.”
Hadley wondered what had happened to the girl. She put her hand in her pocket and withdrew the eye.
“Where did you find that?” asked Granny.
Hadley held it up for Granny to see. “Under my bed. Does it belong to you? Did it come from one of your dolls?”
“Perhaps,” said Granny, closing Hadley’s fingers around the eye. “But you keep it for now. I’ll try and locate a matching one, and then I’ll show you how I make the dolls. Would you like that?”
Hadley forced a smile.
Granny de Mone placed a hand to her mouth and yawned. “Another time. We’ll make dolls and play pinochle, and I’ll bake another crumble.”