The Girl from the Well

She is dragged into another room, but the screaming continues.

The boy is unsettled, and so is the father, though he tries to hide it. “I’m sorry,” the White Shirt tells them apologetically. “That’s Wilma. She’s been quiet the last several weeks. I don’t know what’s come over her today.”

“What’s wrong with her?” the father asks.

“She thinks she’s the archangel Gabriel.”

“Who was she talking to?” But the Shirt only shrugs, because it is not their job to know, only to help.

The room they seek is located at the end of the hall, on the far left. “We set up some Japanese sliding doors in her room, like you asked,” the Shirt says. “She seems to like it, and she’s been considerably calmer since they were installed. Says it reminds her of home.” He pauses, shooting the tattooed boy a significant look. “She’s under a heavy dose of medication right now, but I’m not sure she should see you just yet. You’ll have to stay behind the screen until we’re sure she won’t react as badly as she did before.”

The boy nods, though reluctant about this suggestion. The father squeezes his arm. The Shirt knocks quietly at the door.

“Looks who’s come to visit again, Mrs. Halloway.”

Inside, a woman sits on a white lounge chair. She is a beautiful lady: no longer youthful, but far from the old age the white streaks peppering her long, black hair imply. Her brown eyes are unfocused. In contrast to the whiteness of the dollhouse, a wooden shoji screen splits the room in half and prevents her from seeing those who stand beyond the door. But the screen is not what makes this room different from all the others in this building.

Unlike the people outside, the dolls filling this room are real. They occupy rows of wooden stands that mark every wall. A large platform stands beside the woman’s bed, covered in heavy red carpeting, where a set of dolls have been carefully arranged—a likeness of the Japanese imperial family and their court, presiding over a roomful of subjects.

The dolls that surround the walls are of a different design. While the imperial dolls are smaller and more triangular in shape, the others are carefully proportioned ichimatsu dolls with faces that might at times pass for real children, if not for their affected stillness. Despite these differences, all the dolls in the room bear milky, porcelain-white skin. They are dressed in heavy robes and kimonos, colorful ornaments woven into their hair. Their eyes are colorless. All gaze down at the visitors with expressionless faces, draped in the silence that often comes before the passing of judgment.

“Who is it?” the woman asks. Though her smile is genuine, her words are slow to come, thick with unnatural lethargy. One doll, two dolls, three.

“Yoko?” At the Shirt’s nod, the father enters the room. He slides part of the shoji to one side so he can step in and kneel by the woman. He is used to the presence of these dolls and thinks little of them, but the boy is not yet acclimatized. He does not follow, remaining hidden behind the partition. His eyes wander from doll face to doll face with nervous misgiving.

The man takes the woman’s hand in his. “It’s me, Yoko,” he says gently, and all the love and worry are in his eyes. “It’s Doug.”

“Doug,” the woman repeats. She smiles warmly at him. “It’s been so long since you last visited, anata. I was so worried something had happened. It’s been…It’s been…” She falters, unable to remember. Nineteen dolls, twenty dolls, twenty-one.

“We’ll be visiting more often,” the man promises. “And Tarquin is here,” he adds, though he now says this slowly and deliberately, watching her face anxiously for any signs of distress. The boy standing behind the screen waits, his back rigid. From his position, all he can see of his mother is her shadow, stooping behind the screen.