Once he was gone, Rose stood from my bed and went to the door. I asked why she never ate with us anymore and she told me the more she stayed out of his way, the better. “Like I said, I’ve only got next school year left. At this point, I’m just trying to get through it.”
With that, she turned to go. Despite the fact that Rose had gotten into my room anyway, I locked the door and headed down to the kitchen. My father had not set the table, so I did. When he joined me again, he took the phone off the hook, then pulled out the frozen glass tumbler I only ever saw him use at holidays. From the cabinet above the fridge, he dredged out a bottle of scotch and poured himself a drink, and then we sat at the table, Rose and my mother’s chairs two ghosts among us now. If Penny keeps having an influence, I thought, someday soon I’ll be the only one left.
It was unlike my father not to bother with conversation while we ate the dinner he had prepared—a flavorless meatloaf that tasted nothing like the one my mother made with onions and garlic and stewed tomatoes on top. I kept trying to introduce topics into the silence, telling him about my upcoming exam and the trick questions my teacher tossed in, but those things did not hold his interest.
“Is something the matter?” I asked finally.
My father sipped more of his drink. Turpentine mixed with rubbing alcohol—from where I sat that’s what it smelled like, a smell that made me think of Christmas, since it was normally the only time he allowed himself a glass. “Just nerves,” he answered. “I’m meeting that reporter tonight.”
“Oh. Is he still writing his book?”
“He’s about done with it actually. But our last interview, well, it didn’t go the way I wanted. So I convinced him to meet me one more time. He’s always got so many questions. Some of them I’m incapable of answering, because it comes down to faith and the way we interpret the world.”
“But you’ve always been good at explaining those things, Dad.”
“Yeah, well, I guess the way our lives have been around here lately has me distracted. I want you to know, Sylvie, that this isn’t how I intended things to turn out.”
I stayed quiet, pushing chunks of meatloaf around my plate.
“I’m talking about your mother upstairs. Your sister as well. The two of us eating dinner alone. When I left home years ago, I dreamed of having my own family. A happy one.”
“We are happy,” I said, but there it was again: that flimsy sound in my voice.
My father took a few greedy sips from his glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, letting his meatloaf go untouched. And then a horn honked outside. He stood from the table, giving me a kiss on the forehead.
“You’re right, Sylvie,” he said, sounding less tense. “We are happy. All families have bumps along the way, so why should ours be any different? Things will go back to normal. Anyway, I’ve checked in on your mother for the night, so it’s best just to let her sleep.”
After he grabbed his coat and walked out the door, I was left to clear the table before heading upstairs, where I stopped to peek in at my mother again. She lay in her bed, sound asleep, a half-empty dinner plate on the nightstand. I felt the same urge to go inside and take care of her, the way she always took care of us. But I did what my father asked, leaving her to rest and going to my room instead. I pulled that slim piece of metal from my pocket and slipped it into the knob, opening the door.
The moment I stepped inside, I felt it beneath one of my slippers. When I lifted my foot, I saw another of those broken limbs. And then I looked to see not just one but dozens scattered on the carpet. Dozens more on my desk too. I stared down at the chaos a long moment before gazing up at that shelf, where every last one of them had been toppled.
I closed my door. Knelt on the carpet. Hands shaking, I went to work gathering those pieces. When that was done, I put them in a pile on my desk before stepping into the hallway. Last I looked, the rocker had been empty downstairs, but I knew where I’d find Penny. And whether or not the doll was to blame, I wanted her out of our lives.
I walked to my parents’ room and stood outside their door. My mother, I could see, was in her bed still. Quietly, I pushed open the door enough for me to step inside.
Her voice sounded thick and sluggish when she stirred, asking, “Sylvie, is that you?”
“Yes, Mom. It’s me.”
“Is everything okay?”
“It will be. But I wanted to check in on you. To see if you need anything.”
“Actually, a drink of water would be nice. I’ve just been so thirsty. There’s a glass here on my nightstand if you don’t mind.”
I filled the glass in the bathroom sink and brought it to my mother, who lifted her head from the pillow and drank with a loud gulping sound. Meanwhile, I stared around the room, my eyes adjusting to the green glow of the alarm clock. Their dresser. Their nightstand. My father’s empty bed. It was all the same. But then I noticed a smaller lump beneath my mother’s covers. I reached over and pulled back the blankets.