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“Patricia Leigh Lee, what is that horrifying thing doing in my house?” Mom drops the big wooden bowl of salad on the counter and gawks in genuine terror at the porcelain doll on the kitchen island.
All three of my sisters burst into spontaneous giggles as they continue with their respective chopping and slicing duties.
“Oh, watch out, Lee-Lee. Mom brought out the middle name.”
“Shut up, Lizzie.” I throw an olive at her.
“Don’t throw food in my kitchen, and get that awful demonic thing off my island!” Mom picks up the salad bowl again and stops at Clara’s cutting board to gather up the sliced radishes. “Honestly, Patricia, where did you find that horrible thing?”
My sister Ruth is carving strawberries to look like flowers, and she flashes a smirk at my mom. “Didn’t you hear, Mom? She found it in a dump of a house and thought it was haunted.”
“So you brought it back here?” Mom squeals.
“I was proving a point.” I shrug and crack open a jar of sunflower seeds.
Clara chuckles and scrapes the rest of her sliced radishes into the salad bowl. “It really is the ugliest doll I’ve ever seen.”
A loud babbling sound draws my gaze to the floor where Lizzie’s toddler Benji is clinging to my leg, pressing his round chubby face into my knee. Once he realizes he has my attention, he opens his mouth like a starving baby bird.
I glance at Lizzie who’s focused on the demonic doll and snatch a strawberry slice from Clara’s plate, setting it gently in Benji’s mouth. He giggles and chews happily with both of his teeth.
I’m probably encouraging bad behavior.
But I’m the cool aunt. I have a reputation to uphold.
“You found it in a basement?” Mom is nearly in hysterics.
Flashing a glare at Ruth, I return my attention to unwrapping packages and opening jars. They don’t give me sharp knives in this kitchen.
“It’s just a doll, Mom.”
“It is not just a doll.” Mom shakes her finger. “It’s something that you found in a nasty dirty house. It’s probably full of mold and dust and germs, and now you put it in my kitchen.”
The back door in the family room bangs as it slides open, and Roger, my diminutive brother-in-law, strides inside carrying a plate of sausages.
“First round of delicious grilled meats is—”
“Don’t set it next to the doll!” Mom shrieks.
Roger jumps like he’s been shot, and the sausages nearly roll off the plate. He shifts his weight like a Wallenda on a tightrope trying to keep the sausages from falling. Benji turns and opens his gaping mouth again in hopes that Roger is unsuccessful.
Roger regains his balance and throws a distraught look at Ruth. “What’s wrong with—”
“The doll.” Clara points to the ugly porcelain doll with her knife. “It’s evil.”
“Evil?” Roger leans forward.
“It’s not evil.” I roll my eyes and drop another strawberry in Benji’s mouth.
“It’s infested!” Mom turns away and dumps dressing into the salad bowl. “It probably has hantavirus.”
“Hantavirus?” Lizzie stops dicing peppers and gapes at her.
“It can’t have hantavirus,” Ruth sneers. “Only buildings have hantavirus.”
“Why are we talking about this?” I rest my elbows on the counter.
“What do I do with the sausages please?” Roger’s expression only grows more and more concerned.
“If you set them near the doll, they’ll be infected,” Mom says, sing-songy from the counter.
“Infected with what?” Clara snorts.
“Cooties.” I say and take a strawberry for myself.
“Patricia, stand up straight,” Mom snaps. “You’ll ruin your posture.”
“Yes, and posture is so important.” Lizzie makes a face and dumps her cutting board of chopped grapes into a bowl. “If you had better posture, Trish, your hair wouldn’t be so hard to manage.”
Ruth scowls. “That doesn’t make any sense, Lizzie.”
“I’m sure Mom will say it’s a contributing factor,” I say dryly.
Roger holds up the plate again. “Sausages?”
A loud, echoing voice reverberates off the tall ceilings as my niece Gwen gallops into the room on a pretend horse. She’s wearing a pink sequined cowboy hat, a pull-up diaper, and nothing else.
Clara couldn’t get the child to wear pants for her life.
And I’ve never been prouder. I’m pretty sure that Gwen is my spirit animal.
“Mommy, I’mma ride a pony!” Gwen fake-gallops to her mom’s legs.
“That’s nice, sweetheart,” Clara says without looking at her. “Roger, just take the sausages into the dining room. There are no demon-possessed dolls in there.”
“There are no demon-possessed dolls in here,” I mutter.
Gwen clatters to a stop next to me, staring wild eyed at baby-bird Benji still holding his mouth open begging for strawberries. He turns to look at her and doesn’t close his mouth. Gwen sidles up next to him and looks into his mouth.
“Helllloooo down there!” She waves at something imaginary in Benji’s mouth.
The sliding door to the den opens again, and now it’s Bill and Dan, both with plates of sausages and chicken, fresh off the grill. Dad isn’t just a pastor; he regularly participates in the immolation of various animals.
Gwen gallops around the island.
“Gwen-baby, go gallop in the den please,” Mom croons.
Roger waves at Bill and Dan, points to the ugly doll on the kitchen island, and waves them in for a landing in the dining room.
“Trisha, put the rolls on the table.” Ruth shoves a basket of bread into my hands.
“Any magic words?”
“We don’t believe in magic.” Ruth pokes me in the forehead.
I start to turn around, and Benji increases the strength of his grip around my leg. Sloping my shoulders in defeat, I hobble awkwardly toward the dining room.
“Trisha, posture!” Mom calls after me.
I ignore her and set the bread basket on the table while Bill, Dan, and Roger stare at me.
“I have a Klingon.” I point to my leg.
Dan cackles as he bends down, and Benji lets out a squeal as he reaches for his dad. Dan pries the little boy off my leg and cuddles him close.
“You smell like strawberries.” Dan bops Benji on the nose and throws a suspicious glance at me.
“Hey, I’m the cool aunt.”
“Ha.” Dan heads back for the kitchen. “If he doesn’t eat his food, I’m telling Lizzie it’s your fault.”
“Tattle tale.”
I rearrange the items on the table to prepare for the giant salad bowl, the giant fruit salad bowl, the condiments, the coleslaw, and the last platter of meat that Dad is finishing up on the grill. I heard something about green beans at some point, but if they exist, I haven’t seen them.
“Patricia.” A creaky old voice calls from the dining room doorway into the hall.
I glance up.
Gran hovers in sight, clutching her walker and glaring at me like I told her that her hair was falling out.
“Hi, Gran.”
“Are we ready to eat yet? What’s taking so long?”
“Almost.” I beckon her. “Come on and sit down.”
Gran snorts and makes her way to the table, shoving Cordell into a corner in the entryway.
“Gran.” I leap up to grab her elbow as she awkwardly limps toward a chair. “Your walker will fit.”
“I’m not dragging Cordell in this tiny room.” She bats me away. “He takes up too much space. I always told your mother she needed to put a smaller table in here.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes and help Gran into her customary chair.
“You can’t just leave your walker behind when you need to get into tight spaces, Gran.”
“I certainly can.” Gran snaps her napkin out and folds it across her lap with unsteady fingers. “And I often do.”
“If we could talk to your walker about how often you leave him sitting around—”
“Don’t you dare tell me his eyes are upon me.”
“Hey, you’re the one who named him Cordell.”
Gran snarls at me and gestures toward her plate in silent command to fill it in advance of the dinner rush. With a sigh, I obey her wordless demand, being sure to give her an extra helping of green bean casserole.
“Where is that hunky Guinness boy?”
I cast a sidelong glance at her. “He’s out helping Dad grill.”
“When are you going to marry him?”
I take a steadying breath and put a scoop of fruit salad on Gran’s plate. “When he asks me.”
“If he hasn’t asked you yet, he won’t.” Gran tuts. “What did you do to scare him off?”
“He’s outside, Gran.”
“He should be inside.” She pats the chair next to her. “He can sit next to me. Maybe he’ll marry me instead of you.”
Gran says this frequently, so it’s not something I need to respond to.
“He’s a hunk.”
“Yes, he is, Gran.” I set her plate down in front of her and begin to cut up the chicken tender for her.
“Where is Benji?” Gran twists in her chair. “Did Dan and Lizzie leave?”
“No, Gran. They’ll be in soon.”
As if on cue, Lizzie appears with Benji in her arms. The squishy toddler hangs off her neck with his mouth gaping open.
“Trisha, did you teach him to do this?” Lizzie glares at me as she fastens the boy in his highchair.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Liz.”
“There’s a handsome boy.” Gran waves at him. “Elizabeth, where is his walker? Is he using it?”
“It’s in the entryway, Gran.” Lizzie snaps Benji’s belt shut. “And, yes, he uses it all the time. Thank you for helping us get it.”
“Why isn’t he using it now? Why is everyone carrying him? He won’t get stronger if he doesn’t walk.”
Lizzie and I make eye contact over Gran’s head.
Gran is an equal-opportunity offender when it comes to my sisters and me. I can take some comfort in that, although I question if taking comfort in it is a very Christian thing to do.
“Hi-ho, hi-ho! Cheese!” Gwen screams as she gallops into the dining room. The wild-haired toddler in her diaper and cowboy hat dashes past us.
“Gwen, come sit down.” Clara calls after her calmly.
“I’m onna mission, Mommy!” Gwen gallops into the hallway.
“That’s nice dear, but you should eat something.”
“I’mma cowgirl.”
She trots past me again, and I snatch her up. She shrieks and giggles as I tickle her belly.
“Even cowgirls need to eat.” I blow a sloppy kiss on her neck and toss her to Bill as he comes up next to me.
Bill settles Gwen into her highchair.
Mom and Ruth bustle in with the remaining bowls and sides and plates. Roger follows them with bags of potato chips.
“Patricia.” Mom waves at me and points over her shoulder. “Would you get the lemonade?” She turns her attention to Benji and tickles under his chin.
I make sure Gran has her food cut and her fork handy, and I squeeze out of the dining room to the kitchen island where the pitcher of lemonade is sitting.
The doll is gone.
I frown and scan the room for it. Not that I particularly care about what happens to it, but I’d like to know where it went. I poke my head into the family room and smirk. The ugly doll is sitting on the coffee table now, its dull eyes and sparkling teeth a threatening sight in the otherwise cozy den.
With a huff, I turn back to the kitchen and grab the lemonade pitcher. As I lift it, I glance out the kitchen window to the grill where Aaron is holding a platter where Dad is setting grilled chicken wings.
Both of them look—somber.
Usually when Aaron and my dad are talking, there’s laughter. There’s always smiling. Aaron and my dad get along great. So, what’s with the long faces?
My heart skips a beat.
What if—they’re talking about me?
My stomach tightens. It could be. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen either of them serious, when they are having a conversation about something I’ve done. What if—what if Aaron is breaking up with me?
The thought hits me out of nowhere.
Where did that even come from?
It’s not like he’s given me any indication that we’re having trouble. But isn’t that what happens sometimes? You’re going along secure in a relationship and then they spring something on you? That’s how I’ve heard it happens. Are there any signs or symptoms to watch out for?
Aaron had said he wanted to talk about my conversation with Mom.
What if—he agreed with her?
What if he’s already talked to my parents? What if he’s leaving? What if I had a chance to communicate to him how I feel, and I missed it?
My heart is racing now. My fingers feel numb. I catch the lemonade pitcher before it falls out of my hands, and I swallow loud enough that I can hear it over the din and chaos in the dining room.
You’re overreacting. You’re just being silly. You don’t have enough information.
I walk stiffly into the dining room and set the pitcher of lemonade on the table.
“Oh, Trisha, we need glasses too.” Clara waves me off.
“Glasses. Right.”
I shake myself and go back into the kitchen, gathering the red plastic cups we use for family gatherings. As I’m shutting the cabinet, the sliding doors open, and Dad and Aaron come in. They’re smiling now, laughing about something. They both grin hugely at me.
Aaron holds up the platter. “Wings, anyone?”
I force a smile at him.
Had I imagined it?
Weren’t they just having a serious conversation? Now they’re all grins and laughter? Am I missing something?
“Gwen, get back in your chair!”
Aaron barks a laugh and dodges as Cowgirl Gwen gallops out of the dining room with a loud “Yeehaw!”
Clara is sputtering at the table, and I can hear her from where I’m standing.
“I’ll get her.” Dad laughs and sets his tongs down on the kitchen island.
Aaron ducks into the dining room, and I go back to gathering cups.
“Come here, you rascal!” Dad rumbles from the den, followed by Gwen’s piercing giggles.
My dad is a big guy, but his grandchildren only recognize him as an over-sized teddy bear. Dad is laughing about something now. Knowing Gwen, she’ll convince him to pretend to be a sheep so she can hogtie him, and Dad won’t argue. There are few things he loves more than playing with his grandkids.
I set the cups on the counter and move into the family room where Dad and Gwen are racing around the room in circles.
“Auntie Lee-Lee, I’mma cowgirl!” Gwen gallops past me.
Dad is gasping for breath in the corner.
I start to tease him, but it’s at that moment that Gwen trips. She teeters sideways, and her left shoulder cracks against the coffee table.
I catch my breath as she goes down, and Dad bolts toward her as the wail of fear and pain swells out of her little lungs. I hear Clara panic in the dining room, and in a second she’s there scooping the weeping girl out of Dad’s arms.
Clara sits on the couch and cuddles Gwen close, checking her over quickly and shaking her head with a sigh.
“Child, you’ll be the death of me.”
Dad lets out a pent-up breath. “She okay?”
“She’s fine.” Clara kisses the girl’s forehead. “But she shouldn’t be running in the house.”
I blow out a breath of relief.
Well, hopefully that was our excitement for the day.
I start to go back to the kitchen.
“Patrica.”
I stop and turn back to Dad. He’s standing in the middle of the den, next to the coffee table, scowling deeply at something on the floor.
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
I match his frown and walk toward him. Once I clear the couch, I can see what he’s looking at.
The doll.
Gwen’s impact with the coffee table must have knocked the doll off the edge, and its head cracked open on the tile floor.
The doll’s yarn hair spills across the white tile, its glass eyes empty, and its teeth shining, half of its head shattered. I kneel down for a closer look because there’s something not right.
Granted, the doll has never been right. But— “What is that?”
I reach for the doll’s head and the flash of reflected light shining inside it, and I grasp the corner of a plastic baggie full of white powder. I hold up the baggie so my dad can see it.
Dad’s mouth drops open.
“Trisha,” Clara whispers, “is that—”
I shake the baggie, and the white powder inside shifts and sparkles.
“I don’t think it’s salt,” I mutter.
Dad sinks onto the couch and drops his face into his hands. “Patricia, how do you manage this every time?” He sounds like he’s aged ten years.
I feel like he sounds.
So much for the excitement being over.
