“Hi,” I said, forcing a small smile. “Who are you?”
Still no answer.
She stepped back slowly and turned toward the hallway. I watched her go, then stepped inside.
Her eyes. That color.Ocean- blue.
Years ago, one of my father’s drinking buddies told me about “ocean blue.” Said if you ever looked into eyes that shade, you would feel like a key turning in the lock of your soul. I used to think that was bullshit.
Until now.
Looking into her eyes, she touched my soul. Just for a moment. And it felt all kinds of wrong, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel hollow. I felt at home.
“Dorian,” my mother’s voice came from the kitchen. She moved quickly toward me, arms open. “Welcome.”
To anyone else, she might have seemed warm. But I knew she didn’t want me here.
“Mother,” I said, faking a smile. “So nice of you to let me stay.”
Then her new husband appeared, in his navy cardigan. Cigar in one hand. Leaning in the doorway. His eyes were the same color as the girl’s. She must be his daughter.
I turned my head toward the staircase, and there she was again. Sitting near the bannister, holding a doll in her arms.
I knew that doll.
A little girl used to carry it. On the beach. Before she disappeared.
The girl looked pale, sickly. Her skin was like porcelain left too long in the sun. I didn’t need proof to know my mother had her hands in whatever this was. She used to “take care of us” too, Ian and me. But she never did; she poisoned us slowly. Kept us weak so she could feel needed. Loved the performance of fixing more than the act of loving.
She moved close to me and whispered, “I go by Vivian now.”
Of course she did.
I rolled my eyes.
Vivian turned back to the girl. “Lenore, darling,” she called sweetly, “would you take my Dorian upstairs and show him the attic? We’ve decorated—it even has a bed now.”
My Dorian.Like I was a pet she was showing. Nothing she said was ever without control.
Lenore blinked. “The attic? But—“
Her father’s voice cut in.“Do you want to take his place?”
Lenore went silent. She looked at me, then back at the attic stairs.
“No,” she said quietly, and turned.
Vivian smiled. That smug, too-smooth kind of smile. She patted my shoulder like I was a child again, then she walked with her husband back into the kitchen.
I turned to Lenore. She met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw fear inside hers.
“What’s with the doll?” I asked, walking toward the stairs.
“They don’t talk,” she said flatly, standing and brushing hair from the doll’s face.
I let out a breath of laughter. “Aren’t you a bit old to be playing with dolls?”
She was cute.Too cute.I needed to stop thinking like that.
