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711 Words
Perhaps…just perhaps, she redecorated and has turned what was once a hell-on-earth room into a peaceful sanctuary. With scent diffusers o n a white oak dresser, sage bedding draped over a cloud-like mattress, and a Hatch alarm clock on the nightstand peacefully setting the tone for every night…and gracefully waking me up in the morning.
One can only hope.
I close the space between me and the room and then, on a hope and a prayer, open the door, eyes closed.
Please be redecorated. Please be redecorated.
I peek one eye open only for my hopes and prayers to come to a crashing halt as I go eye to eye with Josefina.
And Felicity. And Molly. And Addy.
And Kirsten.
And that perfect b***h, Samantha.
There are multiples of them, all set up in different dioramas. The six “queens” of the American Girl dolls, as Aunt Cindy would say, are all in their original outfits and posed in cases overlooking the floral canopy bed, but the duplicates are spread around strategically, offering a taste of historic opulence from the good ol’ days…and not-so-good ol’ days.
Molly in her velvet Christmas dress, rocking in the corner.
Felicity in her “saves the day” white gown, with a basket of fresh-cut flowers.
Addy acting as the puppet master of her puppy puppet show.
Josefina with her turtle and her piano, playing a ditty for the other girls.
And Samantha…oh, Samantha with the perfect hair, crimson bow, and batting eyelashes. The absolute worst, propped up next to her white fluffy bed and red trunk, looking through her clothes like the princess of the Progressive Era that she is. Sure, she’s an “orphan,” but she lives with h er rich grandmother in upstate New York—compare that to freaking Addy,
who had to pick her own birthday date because she didn’t know when it was. Samantha had it good.
But I digress. This room was made for torture. It was decorated with horror in mind.
It’s a room shrouded in American Girl dolls, accessories, scenes…and they’re all staring at me.
All begging to be touched. To be rotated.
To have their arms and legs lubricated with innocent child play. But instead of fulfilling their fates as toys, they’ve been set up for a life of boredom as decorations. And I can see the anger in their eyes. They were destined for so much more when they were manufactured, only to be brought to a home where they were to be looked at, not touched.
Treated just the same as a wall sconce, stared at for its beauty but never truly, properly used, these dolls have pent-up energy, deep-rooted depression, and I know for a fact they come alive at night.
And don’t come at me and say I’m being dramatic, because I’m not. I will stand here right now and swear on my left nostril that when I was eleven, one of the dolls winked at me.
Actually winked.
One guess as to which doll it was.
It startled me so badly that I screamed bloody murder, ran down the stairs, and tripped over the Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town rug that’s usually in front of the door, causing me to slide right into the wall and break my wrist.
I still have the pain during cold, wet nights to prove it.
So pardon me for not wanting to sleep in a room that has caused me to nearly lose a wrist.
“Your clothes aren’t going to unpack themselves,” Taran calls from her open door across the hall. “And we need to get this place settled—Martha and Mae are bringing Aunt Cindy back to the house in about an hour.”
I turn toward Taran. “You know, we should really play rock, paper, scissors to see who gets the red room. It would only be fair.” I hold my hand out in position, ready to play. “Best of three?” I ask with hope.
“It’s adorable how delusional you are,” Taran says and then powers down the stairs, picks up the food bags, and heads to the kitchen.
Well, that’s one way to squash the tidings of joy.
- Writer
