Hollow Dolls, The (10 page)

“Please go see the girls Melanie, they
miss you.”

“Ok mum.”

On the way home, Mel stocked up on
essentials: booze, Marlboros and frozen dinners. Most of it was consumed over
the next few days alone in her apartment while she hit a twenty-four hour rough
patch with oxys, dreaming of having a real father and missing her dark
feathered girl. Swimming in paranoid feelings, she sexted Winnie a clit teasing
message and threatened her with a good cropping if she didn’t call right back. Immediately
came a heart-pumping call; but it was from <3CARA informing her she was due
in for work that night. If she skipped, Lilly would have a meltdown.

She ought to have told Lilly about her
plans but didn’t. In the morning Mel booked herself on a flight to Vancouver
via Toronto. Winnie’s cell was still off so she dropped by her place and let
herself in. No Winnie, so Mel left her a note promising to call when she landed
in Vancouver.

A quick visit. Find Walter Willow and
head back. That was the plan. One week max. She promised herself to come back to
London and get a new place together with Win for a fresh start. Her stomach
twisted with the thought of the identity erasure she was caught up in. She’d
bought a one-way ticket. What was tomorrow? All fading and disappearing it was,
the self, the past, the future. Once she was on the plane, she might become
anyone.

She crushed an Abby. Second one tonight,
but still okay, not going over board. Then in perfect she plotted and planned
her and Winnie’s escape. They’d go underground, away from discerning eyes.
Whether she found Walter or not. She’d come back for Winnie and they’d take on
the dark wolves together.

It was no use. She wanted Winnie now. She
dialled and the phone glowed under the blankie-tent she’d made up on her bed.
Straight to voice mail again, voice mail full. She closed her eyes and the
light from the phone danced on her eyelids. There she was, a tiny pink foetus
bathing in embryonic fluid. Melanie the embryo, and Winnie holding the world’s
tiniest scalpel. They both watched under the microscope as the scalpel moved between
Mel’s legs. She saw Winnie’s fingers do the clitorodectomy cut to help her
survive the to Vancouver journey alone.  

Next morning Mel drank coffee and ate
the last Swanson’s roast beef dinner. Four hours left, then Heathrow. Then
Vancouver. The Phillip file sat on the table. She looked at Oksana’s photo, probably
taken by the ‘employment agent’ the day she was snatched. “You have my heart,”
she’d said. It was stupid. Oksana probably thought she was some weird old
person.

Mel didn’t know anyone, really, and no
one knew her. Winnie, yes, but the girls at work, Cara, Lily, it was all a
sham, a front that she’d been ignoring. Not much of a life left now, here in
the apartment. She’d leave her vinyl records and the hard-cover books. Existentialists,
futurists...the quantum universe, paranormal, cosmic physics. Someone would
read them and trace her through a wormhole. Georgy was willing to Skype her
overseas for hypnotherapy sessions. She’d nearly asked him to come. It was the
oxys who wanted to do the talking as he held her naked. Mel wondered how Lilly
would take it. Maybe she’d send Hattie after her—
Club Lick
muscle.
Nothing sexier than a body-building Swede gal packing a big Glock. 

The Atlantic owned everything: the dark
sky, the winds and a piece of anyone who passed. She was a huge choppy
troll who demanded something of you for permission  to cross. Trolls. They even
take tokens like a bit of vomit in the washroom.

The plane creaked out intermittent structural
chat messages.

Mel pulled her writing pad out and pencilled
his name in the middle of the page.
Walter
. She drew spider line
offshoots with bits of Walter on the ends of each tendril mind map style,
adding bits of what she’d learned of him in her mother’s diary.

Empty middle seat.

The window girl was named Julie Spears. After
introductions Mel excused herself for a trip to the washroom. She was feeling
edgy. As she walked amongst all the ‘normals’ eyeing her, her mind became
involved in her peculiar methodology; tearing reality into strips, then little
squares like blotter acid.

Faces had that little thread of fear—each
holding a ticket in the plane crash lottery. Lots of middle aged men on the
flight—one stood up. Mel almost bumped into him.

“Oops, excuse me.” He smiled.

His tone was too profuse, face hoping
too much for recognition... Oh hurt me, make me feel cheap. Mel thought it for
him. She glanced at him half sitting down; squatting until she passed. He was
trying to hold himself with dignity. Grey on the sides with a receding
hairline, he looked good that way—bent over. His patella tendons would be tight
like piano wires.

 Tiny bathroom. All stainless steel. The pure impregnability
of every surface was enticing. On the stainless counter she tapped a bump of
oxy from her paper fold and snorkelled it with a rolled up bill. Canadian money
looked funny. A quick check in the mirror. Would the blonde get dirty in
Canada? Sure, Vancouver was all rainy porridge half the time. She’d rust. She
popped a few Ritalin with a cupped hand of water from the tap, then leaned her
forehead on the mirror and let out a deep breath looking down at the water
streaming into the drain.

Vancouver.

She closed her eyes and was dispatched back...

Vancouver.

Peter grabbed her waist and threw Melanie down on the couch. She kicked
his chin hard with her heel as he climbed on her and Peter pounded her temple
with his closed fist in return. She was dizzy, just hanging on, smelling fermented
breath... Coarse black whiskers grazed Melanie’s thighs as he fed between her
legs. They always grazed her cheek too, where his face went while he was inside
her. The sensation of his whiskers was etched onto her psyche. The right cheek
and those spots on her thighs—she’d learned to protect them as she grew older.
If someone touched her there the wrong way...

She rubbed her thighs and rings, taking her body back. As her
forehead pressed hard against the little bathroom mirror she rolled it back and
forth looking in the mirror’s reflection of her eyes. Nigreda awoke. Melanie had
screamed out once in hypnotherapy that Peter stole her innocence. She was
trying to tell Mel, but it was a convenient untruth; Melanie had never known
innocence.  

A theft of innocence trial:

Attorney for the plaintiff, Melanie Willow, Your Honor, may it
please the court, I present Exhibit A for the record, The Innocence stolen by
the defendant has been sealed in this plastic bag, officially marked and placed
into evidence. ‘This bag is empty, Counsellor, is this some kind of joke? I
find you in contempt!”

Inside Mel’s mind was the little Melanie-cat that left parts of
chewed up rodents: little gifts on the stair outside the front door. They were each
a mystery. A chunk of intestine, a tiny empty heart even. They were Melanie’s pieces
of the past: like once, it was twine rope biting at Melanie’s ankles. That was
her youngest memory ever—hanging upside-down, being beaten. She must have been
about six or seven. Even now, as she leaned against the mirror, Mel could still
feel the helplessness in her body of hanging there, slowly twirling in space
with her hands reaching into darkness as the blows were struck, but what was
she reaching out for? Maybe God’s hand.

Winnie and Melanie had something in common, the way they cut flesh
and blood—ripped things apart. Eventually Melanie would bring Mel the whole
animal. She wondered what species it would be as she washed her hands with the
floral scented squirty stuff.  Angry with all of what had popped up
unannounced, Mel twisted  the stainless steel door handle like it was Peter wrapped
in brown paper towel. She snapped his wrist in two and knocked the world down
on the way out.

Julie was buried in her iPhone and didn’t look up.

"Nice having airplane mode, huh?” said Mel.

"Loving ‘Angry Birds’,” said Julie.

 Heading for Vancouver had Mel thinking...lots. But her head felt a
bit clearer the closer they got. No more trails at least. She’d been taking too
many of everything.

Julie was a redhead—Scottish psychologist. Perfect seat partner.
She wanted to know and Mel told. Well, a lot of it. It just spilled out. In-flight
surrogate bartender and therapist. They talked about Mel’s relationship with Georgy.
She mentioned Georgy’s diagnosis.

Julie’s expertise was showing: “The DSM classifications of
personality disorder: Avoidant, Borderline, Depersonalization, Dependant,
Paranoid, Schizoid. All Boys Drink Down Pub Scotch.” She was a paediatric nurse
joining her fiancé in Vancouver.

“From my City University days,” she said.

Mel nodded.  Julie felt more comfortable with the empty seat
between them. Mel was interesting to her—dysfunctional ones always were.

After they landed in Toronto, Julie was talking to her fiancé on
the phone. Mel caught glimpses of Julie’s animated face as they walked through
the plexiglass tube corridor to the arrivals terminal. It reminded her of
Winnie. The fairy dust energy.

The evening sky painted a velvety surreal landscape. Mel rubbed
her thumb across the white rabbit in her pocket.

“Maybe we could meet up for drink in Vancouver.” Julie handed Mel
her card.

“For sure we will.” Lie.

Mel settled into a comfy chair in the Maple Leaf Lounge by herself.
A young native woman with a black bob played guitar. Mel pondered the way she
sang continuously and smiled at the same time. She was in a trio of blue clad
Air Canada staff; they sang ‘The Centennial Song’... “CA-NA-DA, One little two
little three Canadians, We love thee...”

Last leg: a two hour red-eye to Vancouver. Mel slept most of the
way next to Mrs. Moody who knitted mittens for her grandson in New Westminster.
She cast an evil eye over her eyeglasses to men when they looked too long at
the pretty girl in the aisle seat.

3AM.

Mel stopped for a moment and looked through the glass outside YVR
arrivals terminal. Overhead lights lined the exit ramp. They were baking a
grey-green fluorescent sponge cake that pressed down on a dull yellow smear of
taxi icing.

She dialled Winnie as promised.

“Hello?”

“Hey you—I made it.” Mel tried to sound a little energetic.

A longish pause...

“Win?”

“It’s about that night,” said Winnie.

“Why are you whispering?” said Mel.

On the other end, Alejandra’s fingers dug into the back of Winnie’s
neck and she held back from crying out.

“Winnie?”

“How’s the weather?” said Winnie, her voice strained. Alejandra
let go and went into the kitchen.

“Same as there; all pea soup and cabbies.”

“How was your flight?”

“What’s with you Winnie? Did you play Xbox all night again?”

“Something like that.”

“Look, I’ll only be a few days, maybe a week tops. I just want to
see if I can find my dad.”

“Mel,” whispered Winnie. Winnie looked over her shoulder toward
the kitchen, then turned back. “Alejandra’s here, I mean
really
.”

 Mel looked at her phone. Winnie had hung up. Moments later, a
text came through.

Mel
its her—the real Alejandra—she’s wa

The text was cut short. She called Winnie back and her phone was
out of service.

“Come right this way, Miss.”

A taxi driver was tried jumping the queue starting an argument in
Hindi with the other guy whose turn it actually was. Cabbie wars. Mel set her
suitcase on the curb and climbed in the back seat of the front one.

“Sandman Suites on Davie Street please.”

They pulled out into a heavy mist.

“It’s no wonder we didn’t miss the runway in this mess,’ said Mel.

“Very common for this time of year,” said the driver. Great
conversation. He didn’t understand or he wasn’t listening. Either way she left
it alone, in a miserable mood. The driver’s ID in the visor read ‘Munindar Singh.’
He had the wipers on intermittent. The misty vapours were so thick that
moisture gathered on the windshield continuously, even in the absence of rain.
He sped out of the airport onto the main drag, overtaking the traffic flow like
an Indy driver.

“Munindar! Too fast.”

 “Oh, sorry, Miss. My apologies.”

 He slowed and chattered away some more. Mel’s eyes opened
and closed, occasionally catching the overhead exit signs on the freeway.

‘Grant McConachie Way.’ Hmm...

‘Arthur Laing Bridge ’Vaguely familiar. 

‘SW Marine.’ Warmer.

‘Granville Street.’ The Aha! moment. 

The night was overcast, streets wet and shiny. She slouched down
feeling like a kid, her body thinking
hotel bed
. Over the window ledge she
watched an assembly line of coniferous treetops filed past. The trees through
the window would stop and start. It was someone underneath moving them like props
in a stage play with little kids. One of those plays she should have been in.

The cab jerked her awake. Munindar had stopped hard at a light. He’d
been about to make a run for the yellow and changed his mind at the last
second.  Mel looked up and out over the window ledge again. A green street sign
with white lettering dangled in view: W. 33rd Ave. They’d be crossing the
Granville Bridge into downtown soon. The clock on the dash said 3:38 am. 

Munindar chirped the tires as he hit the gas. Mel watched a sign
through the window: KING EDWARD AVE in white capital letters. It swayed slowly
on a heavy cable, suspended high above the street.

Below it, right at the window frame.

FAST AND CLOSE.

Fuzzy white balloons.

TWO.

TURNED INTO ONE.

Mel put her arm up to block...

The police on the scene claimed the cab passengers were lucky. The
car that clipped them was being pursued by police from a credit union robbery
that afternoon.

EMT Steve Kildare monitored the young woman’s vitals as the
ambulance sped to Vancouver General Hospital. He felt sad for her and tried not
to think about how sexy she was. It was unethical and just plain hinkey. Steve
thought about Sheila the Chief Coroner out on Kingsway instead.  She was
definitely flirting with him just yesterday. Before he could go where he wanted
with that thought, he noticed the girl’s clenched fists. One had a bit of white
stone of some kind and the other had Darth Vader’s black plastic head sticking
out of it. He attempted to peel back her fingers from the white stone. They
were locked up tight. Steve left it alone. The unconscious girl’s body beside
him trembled and jiggled; animated by the bumps in the road. It was erotic to
him, but Steve continued monitoring, trying not to notice the attraction he
felt.

~*~

A
woman was curled up on a long tropical beach. She was alive, motionless on a
blanket. Drone-like laughing seagulls made curiosity fly-bys crying out their
distinctive kee-agh call in a high-pitched laugh "ha... ha... ha...".
They weren’t meat-eaters and so, chose to occasionally alight and peck at the
bananas beside her instead. And laugh.

A
young girl approached, running from far down the beach.

“Bananas
bananas,” she murmured over and over, taking controlled breaths in between as
though she were pacing herself on a long distance marathon.

The
woman was oblivious to her surroundings and when she noticed, it angered the
girl. She quickened her pace. On arrival, she landed long-jump style in the
sand beside the blanket, with her purposeful fists clenched. Her carotid pulsed
a visible message on her alabaster white neck; a creamy white divided by a blue
highway sixty-one. Blood inside raced from the motor city to the heartland and
back again as sand arced from the girl’s feet all over the woman’s face.

“Bananas!”
Her voice grew louder.

She
closed in on the woman, whose eyes were wide now. The woman remained still,
pretending not to notice the little girl as she bent down closer and screamed
at the top of her lungs, “Bananas! Bananas!!”