Holding the doll close, snuggling her like she were my own child, I say, “I’m good with little girls.”
Andrea’s face brightens. “Yeah, you are. That’s how come I like you, Rebecca.”
Dinner surprises me, passing easily, Andrea filling much of the conversational floor space with chatter about little-girl things. It’s not lost on me how much more talkative she is around her aunt, the way her air of heavy resolve seems to vanish. After the table is cleared, Andrea produces a catalog filled with doll paraphernalia, clothing and beds and tiny trunks for storage, and they examine these together. Sometime soon I’ll need to buy Andrea a gift, and I file this helpful knowledge away.
It’s when they’re playing there at the table on the deck, the sun nearly set and a chill falling over the Valley, that Michael reaches for my hand. It’s the first time he’s touched me in Laurel’s presence, and without meaning to, I flinch. Yet Laurel remains unfazed—in fact, she doesn’t even look at us, but I feel like I’m admitting to a horrible, guilty secret in her presence. Michael squeezes my hand harder, until I feel Alex’s band press into my skin, locking against my nana’s sapphire dinner ring.
But he’s not holding my hand to comfort me, or reassure me that I have a place here. That’s not it. He’s flaunting our relationship in front of Alex’s sister. Taking my hand like that, bringing me here without warning—he’s trying to provoke Laurel, and using me as the weapon.
At precisely the moment his strategy crystallizes for me, Andrea’s water-blue eyes grow painfully wide. Her rosebud mouth forms a wounded shape, with only a plaintive, quiet sound seeping out as she stares down at Samantha, the doll her daddies gave her that last Christmas, clutched within her small hand. And one lonely, amputated appendage in the other—poor Samantha’s loose leg, fallen off in her hand.
“Let me see,” Michael says, immediately the voice of calm parental reason. I can only stare in unabashed horror, knowing how special this doll must be to her. But Andie doesn’t budge, simply gapes down in horror at her wounded doll. It’s like that old Waltons Christmas episode from when I was a child, the one where the little girl opened her present to discover that her new doll’s face was shattered.
Michael is around the table before I can even move, dropping to one knee beside her. “Here, sweetheart, let Daddy see.”
With a glassy-eyed, dazed look, she hands over the doll, and Michael goes to work. He prods and pokes, already walking back toward the house as he does so. “Let me take her out to the garage,” he announces evenly. “To my workbench. I’ll get her fixed right up. Don’t you worry.”
“Don’t hurt her,” she says, staring up at him, tears filling her eyes.
Laurel slips a comforting hand around her small shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll be just fine.”
But she’s not just fine, and Michael returns with an ashen expression on his face. He would have loved to be the hero, the one who could make everything okay again. I know this, because I wanted him to be the hero, too. “We could try New York,” Laurel suggests tentatively. “I know they have a doll hospital there, at the store.”
Andrea’s entire demeanor changes, her eyes lifting hopefully. “I didn’t know they had a place to fix them!” From Michael’s sinking expression, he didn’t either. “Thanks, Aunt Laurel! You’re the best!”
Wrapping her small spaghetti arms around Laurel’s neck, Andrea buries her face there, holding tight. Michael carefully deposits the doll on the table. “I’ll call in the morning, sweet pea,” he says. “I can ship the package off from work.”
Andie murmurs a “Thanks, Michael,” without giving him another glance.
Rubbing his eyes, he tells her, “You need to start saying goodnight, sweetie.”
“Aunt Laurel, will you take me inside for bed?” Andrea asks hopefully. “And read me a story?” Of course Laurel happily acquiesces, so together they rise, Andrea slipping her hand into her aunt’s as they walk past us.
Michael stands there, disbelieving as he watches them go. “I’m gonna take a walk,” he finally mutters.
I’m not sure if I should follow or stay, but his face blanches as he says it, so I decide to give him some space. For a long while I sit in his yard, on the dark deck, listening to the nighttime sounds of Studio City. The freeway is in the distance, the rushing sound of cars and traffic and business. Sipping from my wine, I ache for Michael, for the burden of pain he carries. I ache so badly that the sensation grows inside my chest, like something malignant and devouring that won’t let me breathe.
“Is everything okay?” It’s Laurel sliding the door open, glass of wine in her hand. “Where’s Michael?”
She doesn’t understand the fragile balance here, how she disrupted that, stole Michael’s chance to win for once.
“He left a while ago.”