If We Don't Talk About It, It Won't Haunt Me

It came in a box. She. A doll. Big blue eyes, wooden torso under an apple- strawberry short cake uniform. That’s what it— she— looked like. It sat across from me every high- tea, sometimes dinner if mom and dad were away or going to be late, and although it was rare, it slept in the other room, next to mine when I spent the night with them. It was never real. Not once. Not ever when I was around. But nobody believed me.

 

“My name is Daisy. Nice to meet you.”

 

But they believed that.  Her. She. It.

 

“Tommy!” Mom called from downstairs, for what would usually be considered as ringing in the Saturday morning breakfast. “They’re here!”

But not today, I groaned, getting out of bed. They, were Mrs. Stanton and her doll— Daisy— it. That’s right, it, was a doll, and now I was supposed to believe a real girl too. Mind you, there was always something strange about Mrs. Stanton. Nobody believed me—

“I’m not here!” I yelled, running to the window across my room, weighing my options. Very few to nothing, I thought, singling out the broken ladder nearby. Since the ice storm hit last week, mom never got to fixing the damage. And it was a long way down to the ground, I measured, ruling out jumping.

“Tommy!” There was a knock on my door. She didn’t sound like Mom. She was gentle, very un-mom like. “It’s Daisy.”

“I’m not here!” I ran into bed, hiding under the covers, operation— pretending to be sick in motion.

“Thomas Abridge Foster!” Mom came in. Monstrous knocking first, then the storm. “It’s rude to keep your guests waiting!” Frustration graced her face.

“I’m sick!” I faked coughing. “See!” I coughed louder, squinting my eyes, hoping to turn blue. Blue was the sickness colour, right? Like her eyes, Daisy.

 

Look at them! Look closely. Her eyes… look into them. There’s no reflection, not of you, not of what’s behind or around. Nothing! Nobody’s there!  I told mom this once. I told Gray, boy who lived next door, but he’s too chicken to look. But he’s ten, three years my junior, still needs a little growing up to do I imagine. Everybody scares easily at that age, am I right? But as for mom. I expected better. All of them, the adults. I demanded better. But nobody believed me…

 

“Mrs. Stanton is waiting downstairs, off you go!” Mom approached my bed, holding my covers from the tip and ripping them off after three counts.

“No!” I wailed, feeling exposed to it. Her. Now she’d seen what I looked like under the covers. She could make fun of me, I thought. My Jay-Jay the jet plane onesie, that’s what I had on. Mercy me! I thought, jetting out of the room and into the bathroom. Great! I looked in the mirror, picking on my onesie. Now it— she— knew about Jay Jay, I slapped myself lightly. See, the thing about it— her—she collected things from me, information:

 

“What is that?” Daisy asked as soon as I came down, joining them in the kitchen. I was neatly dressed to mom’s delight, ready to be under Mrs. Stanton care for the day, her smile gave it away.

“None of your business!” I pulled a face, grabbing my lunch box from the counter.

“Tommy!” Mom scolded. “Don’t be rude. Tell her what it is?”

“A real girl would know,” I frowned, opening up my box and showing off my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “No!” I slammed my box shut, stopping her from reaching out. If she wanted the sandwich she should’ve asked. But she was a doll. Dolls don’t know anything right? Everything about it—her— was learned.

“Like a real girl,” she said as if reading my mind.

“What?”

“Peanut butter and jelly,” she said, pulling out a pocket book from her apple-strawberry shortcake uniform. They were a lot of pockets on it, I noticed, probably enough to store every key to every room in my house, I assumed. “PBJ,” she emphasised, scribbling it down. That’s what I meant. She collected things from me. Took notes. The first time it was Scooby Doo! She caught me watching it in the play room at Mrs. Stanton’s. She came out of nowhere—

 

__

 

“Colour?” She said beside me, scaring the bee aliens out of me.

“Mrs Stanton!” I screamed, racing to the corner. Scrappy, Scooby’s nephew, showed up on screen with his dukes up, uttering the notorious line; Let me at him! Let me at him! Unfortunately, Scrappy’s courage missed me. She— it— pointed:

“What’s this?”

 “Doll talks!” I screamed, “Mrs Stanton!” my heart raced. “Doll…talks!” There was plenty of room to run but we exchanged roles, the doll and I, I was wooden and it— the doll— wasn’t.

“It walks Mrs Stanton!” It was coming near me. “Mrs Stanton!!!!!”

“Thomas Abridge Foster what in the world—”

She stopped. Seeing it too. The doll. Up and about.

“Colour,” it said, turning around and pointing at the screen. “What’s this?”

Mrs Stanton without missing a beat replied: “Tommy, tell her what it is you’re watching.”

“What?” confused, I watched Mrs Stanton smack her lap and then it—the doll—responded by drawing out a pocket book from her bottom and a pencil from her chest, looking at me: “What is this? Colour?”

“Tommy?” Mrs Stanton called, urging me to speak. “Tell Daisy it’s a television and what the show is called.”

“Why?”

“Thomas!” Mrs Stanton was stern. Her eyes fierce. Between her and the doll she seemed more like a threat. Her weird normal self, I guessed.  And so I told it:

“Television,” it repeated. “Scooby Doo!” It took note. And ever since, from my favourite colour to what sports I play, it took note. It was always:

“Thomas! Tell her.”

 

And from that day everything she learnt I told her. Me, Thomas Abridge Foster, I was her subject.

__

 

“One more thing from you and I’ll have Mrs Stanton grounding you for the whole day!” Mom threatened. That’s right, that’s why they were here. My next twenty-four hours was high-tea, dinner and slumber at Mrs Stanton’s whilst mom and dad were away. PBJ’s were breakfast. Mrs Stanton didn’t serve breakfast. The most important meal of the day! Any real mother would get told off about that, wouldn’t they? But Daisy didn’t need it. She didn’t eat any of it. She didn’t eat. Every meal I had over at Mrs Stanton’s and they’d been a variety since the doll started talking—

 

“What happened to the boring ham and egg sandwiches you make?” I complained. Mrs Stanton was serving another one of her extravagant dishes that nobody cared about, certainly nobody my age. “This is what we call the generational gap, mom talks about it all the time,” I whispered to it— the doll— Daisy, who sat across from me, watching.

“Mom?”

“Yes. My mom.”

It—she—pointed to Mrs Stanton bringing in a tray of—

“Chicken quesedilla sandwiches!” Mrs Stanton announced. “They’re just perfect for this afternoon. I want my baby to be cultured when it comes to food,” she looked fondly at the doll, then at me, “Eat up Tommy! Your mother spoke highly of you getting your necessary protein.” She dished out two plates, one for me and one for it. I ate for both of us.  It couldn’t. Daisy, it, she just learned the words.

“Quesedilla,” she—it— finally articulated after several attempts.  

 

I tried to tell mom about the doll. What happened to it:

 

“Poof!” Mom shook her head. “Tommy you’ve got to do better than that. It’s understandable if you don’t like the girl but insulting her won’t make her go away,” she advised me on our drive to the park. It was Gray’s sister’s birthday. The family invited the whole neighbourhood. Daisy was going to be there.

“Mom she’s not real! She’s been a doll since Mrs Stanton’s been sitting for me.”

“And Mrs Stanton has been doing a wonderful job with you Tommy, like she’s done with the other kids—”

“Missing kids.” The other’s she sat for, those kids, damaged or missing.

“That has nothing to do with Mrs Stanton!” Yes, she’d been cleared by the police. Mom liked to make that a point. “You should be grateful Tommy, not busy trying to find fault in her own daughter. Life’s not been kind to that woman, people—”

She was about to say talk, people talked, but she stopped herself. People talked about the woman who sat for kids that so happened to endure tragic endings. “Be nice Tommy,” Mom stressed instead. Everyone else followed suit. And that’s how they started buying Mrs Stanton’s story about Daisy, it, the doll— that she, it, happened to be some daughter from boarding school. Must’ve been a rough school if she didn’t learn anything, I wanted to bark. But it was pointless, nobody believed me anyway.

__

 

 I tried to get Daisy on camera once. The weird stuff she does, like just staring. But something strange happened— happens— whenever I try. Everything just disappears, disappeared. Like it—she— doesn’t, didn’t exist. Like how I believed it.

 

__

 

“Home at last!” Mrs Stanton chanted. “We have quiet the day ahead of us.” I lived two streets up from her. Same neighbourhood. With the same people who believed Daisy was her daughter. Same people who never met the doll. Didn’t know what I know. Same people who told me to be nice and thought I needed help.

__

 

“Mr Warnock!” Mom rolled down her window to greet him. We’d arrived in the parking lot. Him in his grumpy mood, Mom always the chirper to the rest of the world. “Nice meeting you hear—”

“Your boy seeing someone?” He cut to the chase. “I saw him trying to pull the leg off the poor girl the other day.”

“What?” Mom was appalled.

“Daisy, Mrs Stanton’s kid. I’m surprised the missus never mentioned it to you. He tried to tear off her arm, claimed she was wooden!” His sharp gaze found mine at the back. “You’re lucky I came at the end, you don’t put your hands on girls young man. Ever!”

“I’m sorry—”

Mr Warnock cut mom off. “Get him help before it’s too late. There’re already too many broken children these days,” Mrs Stanton knew all about them I wanted to say, “I’d hate to see Thomas be one of them.” Too late, am I right?

__

 

I stepped out of the car, looking out for nobody in particular, nobody ever seemed to be present whenever I was at Mrs Stanton’s. Did anybody really live around her? I wondered—

“Tommy, let’s go!” Mrs. Stanton called with Daisy by her side, staring at me. Innocence escaped those deceitful pretty blues of hers. They appeared more sinister. The closer I got to the door, to her, the closer fear became.

“Get in!” Mrs Stanton ordered, pushing me through. I tripped on the welcome home carpet, grazing my knees slightly on the rough patch of the floor. Just a little scratch, I examined, dusting myself off. No blood, luckily, I sighed, watching her watching me.

“You good?” She enquired, arms behind her back. Daisy by her side as usual. They would’ve left me for the wolves I imagined, limping slightly towards them. No blood but it still hurt.

 

“So,” I picked up my lunchbox, luckily everything was still intact, “what’s the plan for today?” I started with my sandwich, standing. Between the two of them there was very little to no space for me to make my way past anywhere than the corridor. And I was hungry. Unlike Daisy, I ate.

“What does it taste like?” she asked, Daisy, pocketbook out and ready for notes. Nothing! Was what I really wanted to say. But we’re in enemy territory Tommy, I told myself, good behaviour takes you a long way, I coached myself. Learned behaviour, I corrected.

“Nutty.” I savoured the first half of the sandwich, taking my time with every bite. “Scrumptious.” I licked my lips, thinking of one more thing, “Chocolate,” I blurted. She raised an eyebrow, tried. There was a lot more squinting than eyebrow raising.

“Chocolate.” She took out her pocketbook, pointed to some average Kit Kat drawing she’d sketched a few days ago. Yes, I told her that was chocolate then. There was no harm to saying it was in a PBJ.

 

“Thomas, you know how I feel about you lying to Daisy,” Mrs Stanton’s voice was instrumentally stern, if it was a thing.

“I’m not lying.” I take on the second half of my sandwich. They were waiting on me. It was… strange. Normal. Strange was the new normal around here, I felt, gulping it all up. The attention was getting to me.

“Ready to play!” A senile smile crossed Mrs Stanton’s lips.

“Play?”

“Hide and seek,” she stressed. “I figured we’d do something fun today.”

“That was fun when I was ten.” I was over it.

“Come on, don’t be a spoil sport,” Daisy smiled, sharing the same senile smile. Learned?

Okay, I thought to myself, careful not to blink. They were being… normal. Their normal.

 

Mrs Stanton ushered me to the living room where the count began. Daisy was on. I was bait. I had to hide. Thirty seconds!

Attic, I called my spot, rushing up the stairs. I’d never been up the stairs before. Mrs Stanton would never allow it. But she did that day. Never said a word.

“Ahh!” I covered my mouth. Spiders! Webs! All Over! I shook them off, the spider herd in my mind that graced me. “Mercy!” I tripped over, looking at my shoe laces. They were just fine. It was the floor. They had an endless amount of tiny pot holes, no wonder Mrs Stanton disliked me coming up, I concluded. The place was horrific. I sneezed, struggling to rub out the dust caught in my nostrils. Oh well, I ran to the room right ahead. The door was ajar, like it was waiting for me, it knew I’d be there.

 

“Ahhh!” I entered, covering my mouth, feeling the creepy crawleys everywhere. Smacking my arms, my legs, and then my face in the process.

“Lights?” I asked myself, afraid to touch the walls. I stood near the door, refused to close it just in case. I was unsure. But the worst came to mind. Everything about spiders brought the worst out of me.

Footsteps. I counted them. Part of me wished she’d just find me. Get the game over and done with. But then what next? More teaching Daisy moments, I bemoaned, drawing back into the room.

“Mercy!” I hissed, flicking something off my face. The webs! It must be. I spun around, jittery. Spiders were everywhere. Every—

I crashed into a table. A pen dropped. A flash pen. The light came on. The footsteps stopped. I picked up the pen, pointed it forward, there was a shadow. By the door. Mrs Stanton or Daisy, I couldn’t tell. I knew it! My heart raced, spotting a spider scurrying across the floor. My body shook violently. I pointed to the side and—

 

“Agggggg!” I screamed. Blood. Dried, but blood. “Mrs Stanton!” I raced for the door. Too late. It shut in front of me. “Mrs Stanton!” Tears. I felt them on my lip. Mine. I point the flash back up again, to be sure.

Eyes! Lots of big blue eyes. Just like Daisy. Lots of Daisy’s. But wooden. Out of their box. Lifeless. And next to them….That girl…

“Mrs Stanton!” I pounded the door, recognising her from a missing poster not too long ago. “Get me out of here!” That boy…. Four years ago, he went missing! “Mrs Stanton please!!!” I cried. Wanting my mom.

__

 

“When does he start talking again?” Mom whispered, drying a tear with my story in her hand, looking between me and Doctor Parks. The speech therapist. She went over my story again:

__

 

“Mrs Stanton!!!” I cried out, banging the door. The skin peeling from my knuckles but it was meaningless to me. Fear numbs pain. I was its witness. “Mrs—”

The door swang open, smacking me in the face and into the webs.

Spiders! I squealed. Using my last bit of strength, jumping up and down!

“Thomas Abridge Foster!” Daisy scolded, imitating Mrs Stanton, standing there beside her.

“If we don’t talk about it, it won’t haunt you,” Mrs Stanton curled her lips and the next thing…

 

__

 

Doctor Parks. I was sitting in a room with Doctor Parks. Wooden. My life taken, transferred into the doll, Daisy. It’s why she kept me around so long— Mrs Stanton that was.  To feed her doll. Her child—

“Tommy, do you have something to say?” Doctor Parks enquired.

I shook my head, remembering what she said: if you don’t talk about it won’t haunt you.

The doll.

Daisy.

She was me.

My thoughts, hers.

 

I shook my head and took out a pocket book Doctor Parks gave me for my session. No, I wrote, looking at mom,

 

Ever wonder why they’re always cars but never people?

What happened to the children?

Where are the neighbours?

Ever wonder what people talk about?

About Mrs Stanton?

About the children.

Something about dolls.

With big blue eyes, a wooden torso and an apple- strawberry short cake uniform.

Mrs Stanton loved having them around.

A collection.

In her attic.

Real boys.

Real girls.

Don’t go up to the attic, she’d say, in the beginning.

It was because of the children.

They could only ever learn— the dolls— from us.

Take from us.

Knows us.

It’s the only way they could be us…

 

…you wouldn’t believe me.