{"id":913,"date":"2024-03-25T20:40:43","date_gmt":"2024-03-25T20:40:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/josephrauch.com\/therauchreview\/?p=913"},"modified":"2025-07-01T04:30:18","modified_gmt":"2025-07-01T04:30:18","slug":"the-doll-hospital","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/josephrauch.com\/therauchreview\/fiction\/the-doll-hospital\/","title":{"rendered":"The Doll Hospital"},"content":{"rendered":"

Mallory trudged through frost-bitten grass, the yard sign\u2019s annual juniper garland dangling in her arms. It was the first of December, known to her alone as Decorating Day. Mallory always dressed the yard first, the dreamy twinkle in the front yard always inspired her to believe that the lonely house was worthy of some trimmings too. The house looked onto Adams Street, once a quiet road with a few little houses built around the turn of the century. Now it was a four-lane highway prone to rush-hour congestion. Commercial real estate had replaced many of the old single-family homes. At only three in the afternoon, traffic from the intersection was already suffocating the house.<\/p>\n

The sign at the front of the yard was perpendicular to the road, a few feet behind a row of limestone garden statues that guarded the property. They looked out at the street, a one-time sanctuary where Mallory\u2019s brother, Jamie, would play baseball with the Jensen boys across the way, only dispersing when one of them yelled, \u201cCar!\u201d The Jensen home had been replaced by a Blockbuster Video ten years ago, and Mallory\u2019s brother had moved to the northern suburbs with his wife. Only she remained on Adams Street.<\/p>\n

The sign was white oak and trimmed the same pastel pink as the house. Mallory tucked the garland around the signposts, draping it neatly along the curve of the sign. In the middle of the sign was a thick scarlet cross, and above it, in close black letters, were the words \u201cDoll Hospital.\u201d Yesterday a client, some sort of marketer, had told her to put her name on the sign. Standing there, Mallory was even less sold on the idea than she had been yesterday. It felt a little tacky to credit herself publicly. Mallory had no interest in broadcasting her existence.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you think?\u201d Mallory asked her statues. \u201cShould I add a wreath?\u201d She cocked her head, estimating how much of the sign would be blocked out by a ten-inches of holly berries. Deciding it would feel cluttered, Mallory retreated toward the house. She zigzagged around ice patches and the little statues that dotted the lawn. Mallory paused for a second, imagining the little stone creatures glittering with lights. She collected figures \u2014gnomes and fairies, angels and saints \u2014 to comfort herself and populate her life with personalities and characters. Their presence, however, did tend to generate an undesirable curiosity in the Doll Hospital. Mallory knew that the remaining neighbors whispered about her eccentricity, which was glaringly conspicuous in the homogeneous suburb. Mallory would have rather remained unseen and undiscussed.<\/p>\n

The garage, a small structure painted the same pink, was tucked behind the house away from the street. Mallory\u2019s narrow driveway was slippery with ice, so she padded carefully along the edge of the lawn. At forty-three, Mallory wasn\u2019t old but she wasn\u2019t nimble either. She ate sparingly and got most of her exercise by lifting toys onto their shelves. These days her patients were mostly American Girl Dolls, a seemingly endless rotation of Samantha, Addie, and Felicity with loose arms and wobbly heads. The Doll Hospital was only thirty miles from The American Girl Place on Michigan Avenue, so parents often flocked to her little home business with their children\u2019s broken dolls to avoid the corporate prices in the city. Mallory missed the days of artistry that she used to disdain, painting on faded porcelain faces, reanimating dolls wiped clean with age. Now she felt like a factory worker, reassembling the same doll from the same parts again and again.<\/p>\n

Mallory used the garage for storage, spare doll limbs, and holiday decorations. She only drove her wood-paneled station wagon to get groceries and supplies for the business, otherwise, she mostly stayed home. She keyed open her garage and hoisted the door upward so that it lay flat along the ceiling. A large, green plastic bin in the corner overflowed with Christmas lights, and she began to rummage through the strings, searching for one without missing bulbs. The colored lights were her favorite. She\u2019d watch from her bedroom window on the second floor as they lit up the house like an arcade game. Mallory, wary of the attention she was already receiving, pulled out the uniform yellow-white lights instead.<\/p>\n

As Mallory wrapped the string around her wrist, car wheels crunched over the icy drive. A mauve minivan pulled up to the house, parking near the front walk. Mallory tiptoed out onto the slippery pavement. The Doll Hospital was open between eight in the morning and six in the evening for drop-offs, but people usually called or emailed to let her know how their doll was suffering, if only to ensure she could fix them before driving out. Unexpected drop-offs made Mallory a bit skittish because she usually needed a moment to emotionally prepare herself before meeting a client for the first time.<\/p>\n

Even the most basic small talk debilitated her. Sometimes, when a client came with a new drop-off, she\u2019d start talking to the doll instead of the customer. A woman once asked her if this was part of the gimmick, an act to match the exam table and the doctor\u2019s coat she kept at the back of the store. Others would draw in their breath and hurriedly push the doll toward her, assuming Mallory was insane. Neither was the truth; Mallory simply preferred to project a personality onto a tiny plastic person than navigate the demands of a real one.<\/p>\n

Mallory began planning how she might address the doll until she noticed the man climbing out of the minivan. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his honey-brown hair cropped close and graying at the roots. In one hand he held an American Girl Doll. When he turned to Mallory, a smile spread across his face.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Mal,\u201d he said, \u201cYou available for a little surgery?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mallory\u2019s body knew who he was before she did. Her muscles relaxed and her heart began to sing.<\/p>\n

Though she knew, she asked, \u201cCharlie?\u201d<\/p>\n

* \u00a0 * \u00a0 *<\/p>\n

When Mallory arrived home from school, her mother was in the nursery. Mallory\u2019s father had died almost two years before, on a rainy day in June, a few hours after completing construction on a nursery for the hospital, finished with little plastic bassinets and a thin sheet of glass separating new owners from the baby dolls. Jane, Mallory\u2019s mother, took great care in curating the nursery, filling it with new arrivals, and taping little birth announcements to their bassinets. Fierce December wind whipped into the house behind Mallory. She slammed the door, snot slipping down from her nose to her lips.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom?\u201d Mallory began.<\/p>\n

Jane looked up from dressing a blue-eyed baby doll in a ruffled bonnet. Her mother wore little glasses and a doctor\u2019s coat. She examined Mallory\u2019s cheeks, salty with tears.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, Mal?\u201d Jane cooed. \u201cIt\u2019s Decorating Day.\u201d She set the baby doll in a bassinet labeled \u2018Angela.\u2019 Jane only allowed adoptions on the weekends. Families would dress in hospital robes while Jane examined the ears, nose, and throat of the new babies. Mallory would begrudgingly act as the nurse, dressed in a World War II-style apron with a crimson cross across her chest. Mallory was relieved that it was Monday, a day for stitching and styling, so no one would see the trails of heartbreak running down her face.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs Charlie coming over?\u201d Jane asked. Decorating Day required a great deal of lifting and unstacking, activities that Mallory knew her mother believed to be best suited to men. With Jamie studying in Champaign, Mallory knew Jane had hoped the youngest Jensen, Charlie, would join them this afternoon to pull the decorations down out of the attic. Mallory and Charlie were in the same class at school and had been largely inseparable as children. When Mallory had passed Charlie in the hall that day after the third period, he had barely looked at her. Mallory pretended not to care that her oddities and awkwardness had finally made her insignificant to him.<\/p>\n

Mallory wiped her nose with the edge of her winter coat and hid her face from her mother. She licked her swollen lips and pulled them into her mouth. They were warm and sour.<\/p>\n

\u201cCharlie\u2019s going to the Winter Dance with Mary Anne Reid,\u201d Mallory said. \u201cThey\u2019re dating now.\u201d Mary Ann Reid was on the dance team, the more sophisticated alternative to cheerleading, which made it significantly more difficult for Mallory to dismiss her as vapid. With shiny blonde hair and perfect white teeth, Mary Ann was practically Marcia Brady. Mallory, in comparison, resembled one of the dolls, wide-eyed and innocent with porcelain skin, perpetually styled in collared dresses made by her mother.<\/p>\n

Mallory turned her swollen eyes back to the nursery. Jane seemed not to notice her daughter\u2019s puffy eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, can he still come over to help with the boxes in the attic?\u201d Jane asked, giving her a firm look before returning to the new arrivals.<\/p>\n

Mallory couldn\u2019t explain to her mother that while Charlie would certainly come over and lift boxes for them, she didn\u2019t want to see him now. By next September, Charlie, a star student, would likely be off at Northwestern, and Mallory might never see him again. For the next few months, Mallory would have to change her hallway routes to avoid Charlie\u2019s locker and walk home from high school instead of catching a ride with him. Mallory ran up the stairs to their living space on the second floor, pausing in front of the attic latch that hung above the last step. A short rope dangled from the ceiling. Mallory pulled it, releasing a small, suspended ladder. Mallory hoisted herself upward, into the musty darkness, determined to disguise her anguish with industriousness.<\/p>\n

* \u00a0 * \u00a0 *<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s Kit Kittredge,\u201d Charlie said, handing her the yellow-haired doll. \u201cI got her for my daughter\u2019s birthday back in June, and she\u2019s already gotten a bit too much love.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHi, Kit,\u201d Mallory mumbled softly, lifting the doll by the armpits.<\/p>\n

Kit\u2019s left leg was drooping out of its socket. The string that connected the limb to the body was slack and fraying. Mallory could see instantly that American Girl had begun using a different type of string; it was poor quality and not excess love that had brought Kit to the hospital. No one ever referred to broken people as being too loved; if a human being needed fixing, it was assumed that they had been loved rather poorly.<\/p>\n

\u201cAlright, Kit,\u201d Mallory said. \u201cLet\u2019s get those patient admission forms filled out.\u201d Mallory hurried up the front path, dodging ice and carefully supporting Kit\u2019s leg, the string of lights slapping against her coat as she walked.<\/p>\n

Mallory carried Kit to the waiting room, a yellow wallpapered space where recently admitted dolls awaited examination in individual white cubbies. Inside each cubby was a hospital bed made out of a thin blush cushion. Mallory pulled paperwork out of the drawer of a narrow desk and handed it to Charlie without meeting his eye. From the drawer above the first, Mallory drew a roll of hospital bands and quickly scrawled \u201cKit Kittredge Jensen\u201d on the narrow line below the date.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe might have to keep you here for a couple of weeks, Kit,\u201d Mallory told the doll, scouring the cubbies for an empty bed.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s okay,\u201d Charlie said. \u201cDo you think we\u2019ll have her in time for Christmas?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cKit, you\u2019ll be there on Christmas morning to meet all of your new friends,\u201d Mallory cooed, soothing Kit\u2019s hair and tucking her into the nearest available cubby. Mallory\u2019s limbs were shaking badly with nerves, so she busied herself by situating Kit and checking on the dolls around her, as if to make sure they were comfortable.<\/p>\n

Charlie cleared his throat. \u201cSo how have you been?\u201d he said, handing over the admittance forms.<\/p>\n

Mallory shrugged, looking down into the winter coat she was still wearing as if his voice had emerged from her pocket. She couldn\u2019t bear to look at Charlie, knowing that his natural charisma might unpack something that she\u2019d long ago stowed away. Worse, Charlie\u2019s charm might fail to simply delight her, confirming Mallory\u2019s fear that she was no longer capable of desire.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe hospital hasn\u2019t changed a bit,\u201d Charlie observed, ambling over to the nursery case, examining the colorful baby block letters glued above the glass.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t dress up in the old costume anymore if that\u2019s what you\u2019re wondering,\u201d Mallory said to him, finally, looking at the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut there\u2019s a new costume?\u201d Charlie jested.<\/p>\n

Mallory felt a tug at the corner of her mouth but tucked in her growing smile. Sheepishly, she opened her coat to reveal her soft pink scrubs. There was a tag pinned on the left side of her chest that read \u2018Dr. Mallory Winkle, DDM\u2019 in blue type.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know you could get a doctorate in doll making,\u201d Charlie quipped as Mallory hid her badge back into her coat.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be smart,\u201d Mallory said, raising her gaze to his eyes. To her great relief and horror, Mallory felt the smallest flutter of hope tickling her stomach.<\/p>\n

\u201cNever,\u201d Charlie smiled. He looked around the room, eyes glazing over the nursery, the display in the front with the German china dolls, the baskets full of Raggedy Anns and Cabbage Patch Kids. Mallory noticed the foregone look of nostalgia in his smile.<\/p>\n

\u201cI heard about your mom,\u201d Charlie said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s fine. It\u2019s been years now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou must be lonely,\u201d Charlie observed, giving her a sidewise, pitying look.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I have the dolls,\u201d Mallory said sardonically.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

On a damp June day, Mallory packed up her mother\u2019s station wagon with miniature surgical supplies and a small Samsonite suitcase filled with personal items. That Mallory had more doll-making tools than personal effects increasingly bothered her; based on where she was headed, the unsettling imbalance was almost guaranteed to grow. Rainwater from earlier that morning dripped off the edge of the back hatch onto her strappy, yellow sundress. A quiet mist fell from the sky, and the humidity stuck to her skin. Mallory found damp clothes unbearable but didn\u2019t have a change of clothes that wasn\u2019t already packed. Mallory was always a little bit uncomfortable, even when she was alone, so deeply attuned was she to the not-quite-right bits of life, especially the bits inside of her. Mallory sighed, ill at ease, knowing she would just have to tough it out in a wet dress for the seven-hour drive.<\/p>\n

It was always assumed, at least by Jane, that Mallory would take over the business. At her own insistence, Mallory got an associate\u2019s degree in administration at the community college, desperate to learn something more practical. The day Mallory finished, Jane signed her up for classes with the Doll Artisan Guild. Jane had taught Mallory here and there over the years \u2014 how to paint eyebrows or re-secure eyelashes \u2014 but Jane wanted Mallory to have a formal education and argued that the growing popularity of the nursery made it impossible for her to be Mallory\u2019s instructor.<\/p>\n

Mallory had heard about Agnes, the doll-making master of the Midwest, from her mother\u2019s stories. Agnes had been a second mother to Jane when her mother couldn\u2019t be one. As a teenager, Jane had lost her mother\u2019s guiding hand to schizophrenia, which had hit her hard during menopause. For comfort, Jane kept after her dolls from childhood, sleeping with a favorite, a rag doll named Sue Mae, into adulthood. At twenty, Jane, not yet married, was without work and struggled to help her father care for the family. Jane read in the local paper that a woman one town over was a certified doll-making instructor and rang her the next day.<\/p>\n

Jane described Agnes as plumb, warm and big-hearted, but also had told Mallory about repairing porcelain Victorians until four in the morning with only the sound of Agnes\u2019s metronome to keep her awake. Mallory\u2019s stomach dropped at the thought of being all alone with Agnes and her dolls for the next six months, painting with tiny brushes as the metronome kept time of her movements. Mallory had no alternative to following her mother\u2019s wishes for her education because she hadn\u2019t had much opportunity to develop wishes of her own.<\/p>\n

Mallory pulled her long, strawberry hair up into a ponytail and took one last look at the house with its fading white shutters and its loose-shingled roof. Behind her, the tires crunched against the gravel drive. A Dodge pick-up stopped behind the station wagon, and Charlie hopped out of the driver\u2019s seat. He hesitated, hanging onto the pick-up\u2019s door for a moment like he wasn\u2019t quite sure he should be there. He looked Mallory up and down.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a terrible goodbye dress,\u201d Charlie said, slamming the door shut.<\/p>\n

\u201cGeez, thanks,\u201d Mallory snapped.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf people see you in that, they\u2019re going to wish you were staying,\u201d Charlie said.<\/p>\n

Mallory swallowed, her heart quickening as he strode toward her, his work boots kicking up gravel. Charlie and his brothers had started a landscaping business for the summer, and Charlie was slick with sweat and rain from his morning job. Mallory savored his smell, and let it fill her with soft yearning.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, you\u2019re off,\u201d Charlie said like he was a little disappointed. This surprised Mallory, who hadn\u2019t properly been friends with Charlie since he started dating Mary Anne during senior year of high school. Mallory\u2019s mother said it was because Mary Anne would be jealous of her lifelong friendship with Charlie. Mallory knew it was because she was jealous of Mary Anne\u2019s ability to have Charlie fall in love with her. Charlie leaned against the station wagon and peered through the window.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, all the way to Omaha,\u201d Mallory said, playing with the door handle. She felt her face flush and pressed her clammy cheeks against them to level herself back out.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got a lot of doll corpses in there,\u201d Charlie commented, wiping off the rain with his sleeve.<\/p>\n

\u201cEasier to operate on if they\u2019re already dead,\u201d Mallory said, a smile spreading on her face. She leaned against the station wagon too, a polite distance away from him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho knew Adams Street had its own Frankenstein? Don\u2019t forget about me when you\u2019re famous,\u201d Charlie jested, gently kicking a piece of gravel toward her.<\/p>\n

\u201cA famous doll maker?\u201d Mallory laughed. \u201cIt\u2019s more likely that my creations will come to life and hunt me down.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t they already?\u201d Charlie said, nudging her a bit.<\/p>\n

When they were young, Charlie and Mallory used to sit in the hospital and tell scary stories about the dolls. There was one doll named Maurice, a leering clown, white-headed and red-cheeked, that Mallory swore moved around in the dark. On summer nights, Charlie and Mallory would camp out in front of the shop, next to the shelves filled with antique toys, and try to catch him in the act. Once, a box on the shelf above Maurice slipped off the edge, and the poor little clown tumbled along with it, scaring Mallory so badly that she cried for half an hour. Charlie comforted her the whole time, patting down her hair and making jokes about Maurice breaking his back and retiring from the circus.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you hear that my mom sold Maurice?\u201d Mallory asked, reminding him of their idyllic shared childhood.<\/p>\n

\u201cSeriously? I thought he was her favorite?\u201d Charlie said with the curious excitement of a child.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad bought the doll for her when they were courting at an antique show. He was amazed that he found something from 1905 until Mom told him she had a doll from 1855.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStill her favorite though,\u201d Charlie confirmed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d Mallory said, \u201cShe loved my dad more than the dolls, so anything he found for her she loved twice as much.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLove is funny,\u201d Charlie smiled. There was a bit of dirt above Charlie\u2019s eye that Mallory longed to brush away.<\/p>\n

\u201cMal?\u201d Charlie began, extending a hand, stepping toward her a bit. He took one of her long curls and wrapped it around a finger.<\/p>\n

\u201cCharlie,\u201d Mallory said, stepping toward him. Instinct, for maybe the first time, allowed her to wipe his forehead. She let her fingers linger on his cheek.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf this old lady has any creepy clowns, send me a picture,\u201d Charlie said softly. Mallory smiled, warmth returning to her cheeks.<\/p>\n

\u201cI won\u2019t be gone that long, you know,\u201d Mallory said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know about that. Some guy might charm you with an antique doll, and you\u2019ll never come back,\u201d Charlie said, pulling away and uncoiling the hair from his finger.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t love dolls that much, so I\u2019m not sure that would work,\u201d Mallory said.<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d Charlie asked, a bit surprised as if he didn\u2019t know how stifled Mallory felt by the omnipresent porcelain-faced figures. Maybe Charlie thought time had changed her, but Mallory felt perpetually, infuriatingly unchangeable.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the family business,\u201d Mallory shrugged.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what do you love then?\u201d Charlie said, so quietly she couldn\u2019t be sure if he was making conversation or baiting her.<\/p>\n

She couldn\u2019t bring herself to answer, so she just let her truth hang between her teeth. Charlie turned back to his truck, standing on the step next to the driver-side door. He waited for a moment, but when she didn\u2019t answer, he opened the door and stepped inside. Mallory felt the rain return, falling, slow and heavy on her back.<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess you\u2019ll find out,\u201d Charlie said, playful and carefree once again. \u201cSend some doll pictures. Mary Anne and I like to scare each other, and she won\u2019t see it coming.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mallory deflated a bit. She realized that her cowardice hadn\u2019t lost her this beautiful moment, but hundreds of them over the years. Not only had Mallory not spoken this truth, but she never believed in its reciprocity, in part because she had long ago begun to believe that she was quite simply undeserving. Part of Mallory had always hoped that Charlie would see beyond her insecurity, to the tiny part of her that didn\u2019t quite believe in her unworthiness. With a wink, Charlie got in his car and backed out, bits of gravel kicking up under the tires.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n

\u201cWho does Kit belong to?\u201d Mallory said, willing herself to look straight at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy daughter, Jessica,\u201d Charlie said, flipping through a slim leather wallet. Charlie handed her a credit card, but she waved it away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, no exam fee?\u201d Charlie asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot for friends,\u201d Mallory said, immediately regretting her words. \u201cI meant old friends.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re friends, Mal,\u201d Charlie said, quietly putting his credit card away.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hardly know you now,\u201d Mallory muttered, pretending to glance over the admittance form, studying Charlie from the corner of her eye. He was wearing a neat, cream Aran sweater under a gray coat. A watch peeked out under his left sleeve. It wasn\u2019t showy, but Mallory could tell it had been expensive.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s been a while,\u201d Charlie said. \u201cI\u2019m sure you heard I got divorced.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mallory dropped the forms into a manilla folder. A lightness she hadn\u2019t felt in ages lifted her.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Mallory said, \u201cI hadn\u2019t heard that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI figured Jamie would have told you,\u201d Charlie said. \u201cHe and Will still meet up now and again.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mallory had seen her brother at Thanksgiving not even a week ago. Jamie didn\u2019t talk about the Jensens much, even though Mallory knew he was still friends with Charlie\u2019s brothers, Matt and Will. He never mentioned them. Perhaps Jamie thought she ought not hear about Charlie.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Mallory said, her stomach flickering with anticipation.<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout a year ago,\u201d Charlie said, \u201cMary Anne got a job in New York, so I\u2019ve got the girls most of the time, which has been nice.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mallory knew nothing of Charlie\u2019s children, let alone how old they might be. Old enough for an American Girl Doll, but young enough to break it quickly. Mallory could feel blood rushing through her limbs, loose and hot. She was like a stream thawing in the spring, dangerously overflowing.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s Decorating Day,\u201d Mallory invited, eager but unassuming. Charlie checked his watch.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy mom is with the kids until six,\u201d Charlie grinned. Mallory fastened up her jacket. Charlie paused before the stairs.<\/p>\n

\u201cEverything\u2019s in the garage now,\u201d Mallory said, leading him back out into the icy yard.<\/p>\n

Charlie insisted that Mallory let him decorate the roof that hung over the front porch with the fat multi-colored bulbs. Mallory felt a bit bashful, insisting that she didn\u2019t want all that attention.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have two dozen statues in your front yard,\u201d Charlie remarked as he laid a ladder against the edge of the house. \u201cDon\u2019t tell me you don\u2019t want to be noticed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mallory stood at the bottom and watched him attach plastic clips to the shingles to secure each individual bulb. The deftness of Charlie\u2019s work impressed her, and Mallory tried to place the tunes he was humming as he worked. She thought it might be Bruce Springsteen. At seventeen, they\u2019d gone to the record store in town so that Charlie could use his lifeguarding money on \u201cBorn to Run.\u201d Greg O\u2019Connor, who worked the register, looked the two of them over with laughter in his eyes, and asked Charlie if he needed some lithium to balance him out, in case the Springsteen wasn\u2019t enough. Charlie and Mallory didn\u2019t go into town together after that.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow old is your daughter?\u201d Mallory asked, holding tight to the ladder rung at shoulder height.<\/p>\n

\u201cJessica is seven, Ashley is eleven, and Carrie is, God help me, fifteen,\u201d Charlie said, hopping off the second to last rung.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t believe you have a teenager. It feels like we were just teenagers,\u201d Mallory said.<\/p>\n

Charlie hesitated. There was a certain vulnerability in the slack of his face. \u201cIt does,\u201d Charlie agreed.<\/p>\n

They had finished decorating the porch, but Mallory hoped he might help her light up the Yard Babies closest to the sidewalk.<\/p>\n

\u201cJessica reminds me of you,\u201d Charlie remarked. \u201cShe has all of these beautiful toys and dolls. Some were brand new, some from her sisters. Doesn\u2019t seem excited by any of it.\u201d He pulled up his sleeve to check his watch.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeautiful objects don\u2019t bring real happiness,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got to get going,\u201d he said, tugging the ladder off the lip of the gutter.<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d Mallory said. \u201cKit should be fixed in ten days or less. I\u2019ll give you a call.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI look forward to it,\u201d Charlie said. He put the ladder against the garage, while Mallory slipped in behind him, pretending to rummage through her box of lights. She slid a hand through her hair, realizing she hadn\u2019t tended to it in ages. Mallory was finding white hairs more regularly, and while it was disappointing, she hadn\u2019t thought to cover them up. The National Doll Makers Conference last July was the last time Mallory had really tried to make herself presentable.<\/p>\n

Charlie stepped into the garage, navigating the barrage of boxes. He casually picked up a leg from the top of a box.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis looks like it could fit Kit,\u201d Charlie mused.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell it\u2019s more of an attachment issue \u2014\u201d Mallory began as Charlie drew her in for a hug.
\nMallory\u2019s cheek was nestled against the wool of his sweater, which smelled like the Charlie she knew, playing baseball and planting trees. Mallory tilted her chin up, remembering how the curve of his eyebrow felt against the pulp of her thumb. Charlie pulled back.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should come over one day,\u201d Charlie said. \u201cWe\u2019ll cook for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mallory rose to her toes.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d love to meet your daughters,\u201d Mallory beamed.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe you can bring Kit back yourself,\u201d Charlie said. He leaned against the door of the minivan.<\/p>\n

Mallory took a few steps toward him. Charlie opened the car door.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a date,\u201d Charlie confirmed. \u201cMy girlfriend is a great home chef. You\u2019ll be so impressed.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was dark now, the wind chill accelerating. It slapped Mallory backward, square on the chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure I will be,\u201d Mallory said, a hint of bitterness not hidden in her reply.<\/p>\n

Charlie started the car, and with a wave, and no hesitance, backed away from Adams Street.<\/p>\n

Mallory marched back into the garage, her footsteps cracking up the ice. She hovered over the box of Christmas lights, which mocked her in their merriment. Behind the decorations, a box of Jamie\u2019s old sports equipment lay open accumulating dust. Mallory grabbed Jamie\u2019s old baseball bat, its barrel furry with splinters, and carried it down the icy walk toward the now kaleidoscopic porch of the Doll Hospital. Mallory threw open the front door, a foreign pounding in her ribcage urging her onward. She stared at the cubbies of admitted dolls.<\/p>\n

At the behest of her unanticipated rage, Mallory snatched Kit out of her box. Mallory tugged on the limp leg, pulling it at the angle she knew would make it snap. She held the bat above Kit\u2019s buck toothed grin before pitching the one-legged doll wildly across the room toward the exam table. Kit hit the corner of the table and slammed to the floor.<\/p>\n

She turned, heaving, to the hospital nursery and was nauseated by the sweetly primed baby dolls sleeping in their bassinets. She swung the bat at the glass until it burst, shooting shards across the hardwood. A piece of glass sliced the skin along Mallory\u2019s cheekbone, which immediately began pulsating with pain.<\/p>\n

She ran to the bathroom, manically pulling apart the toiletries in search of bandages she hadn’t used in ages. Mallory peeled apart a pile of hardening towels, not a part of the rotation of her favorites, desperate to find bandages she hoped were shoved in the back. There was a small thud, and an awkward object dropped from the unfurled towels.<\/p>\n

Maurice, his skinny body worn and faded, tumbled out of a floral towel that Mallory hadn\u2019t seen in twenty years. He was the same as ever, jeering and laughing, his face an odd symmetrical mask. She knew the value of dolls, and Maurice, though worn, was in good condition. He was nearly a hundred years old and would be worth thousands more than he had been in the seventies when his mother claimed to have sold him to an antique dealer in Kane County. Mallory gently laid him on the old towel, her mind sifting through the possible reasons for such a lie. She no longer found Maurice frightening, taunting, pointing his pearly index finger at her, identifying her unloveliness.<\/p>\n

But decades later, here he was, the love her parents shared, never exchanged, sold or forgotten, simply hidden from sight. The clown had outlived them both, preserving their love, and accruing its value over time.<\/p>\n

The morning after the traumatic evening that Mallory and Charlie had stayed up to watch Maurice, Mallory was struck with a sudden understanding that the doll had never moved by himself. Both a relief and loss, it was a bit of tricky magic disproven like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Maurice had only moved circumstantially, and Mallory often happened to be almost constantly watching, perhaps because she was constantly in the Doll Hospital. Quite loudly, Mallory continued to claim belief in the opposite. If Charlie thought she dreaded the clown, would he there be to protect her from Maurice\u2019s haunting?<\/p>\n

Mallory knelt and grabbed the wooden bat. With both hands around the grip, she stood up over Maurice. Without hesitation, she smashed Maurice\u2019s little face repeatedly until he was unrecognizable. Mallory stood above the wreckage, chest heaving. Maurice was broken, utterly destroyed. Some might have said, not knowing the circumstances of his death, that Maurice had been well-loved.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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