Glass Eyes

I know she is in here somewhere. I ravaged through the storage closet in the hall frantically looking for the wooden box that strangely resembled a small coffin and finally uncovered it in the back corner. Rising from the dead. I pulled the box from underneath the pile and held the boxes stacked up to keep them falling on me. When I turned around, my daughter’s expectant eyes met me.

“What is it, Mommy?”

“Well, little miss, this is my baby doll,” I said as I pulled off the lid. The doll laid inside her wooden coffin, her eyes closed in a lifeless sleep. Her hair bunched around her head in a knotted mess and her white dress with blue stripes had a stain close to the hemline. I smiled at the memories she brought back. I carted this doll everywhere with me as a young child. After moving across the country at eight years old, my doll became my best friend as I adjusted and got to know people in our new environment. 

When I lifted her out of the box, one of her glass eyes didn’t open as far as the other did. She certainly showed her age and the love she endured earlier in her life. My daughter’s expectant arms told me that this mess of a doll would once again be dragged everywhere and over loved. Little hands wrapped around the plastic arms and little blue eyes investigated every detail.

“She’s dirty, Mommy.”

“Yes, I loved her a lot. Do you want to love her too?” She didn’t answer, but her disappearance around the corner, doll in tow, told me all I needed to know. I shifted some boxes back into the closet, stood up, and closed the door. Rounding the corner into the living room, I could see my doll already perched at a tea table with her own teacup full of imaginary tea with a plastic play cake on a plate next to the cup. The moment of normalcy eased my worries. 

The week before, I faced the end of my marriage with more courage than I thought I could muster. I stood in that same living room next to the little tea table and told my husband that I could no longer continue wishing he would join us in our life together. I told him he needed to leave. Just this morning, a man walked into my office and served me with divorce papers signed by my husband who swore he would never sign a single paper as he stormed out of the house a week ago. As I read through his demands for full custody of our four-year-old daughter, our home that I paid for, spousal support, and child support, I cried for the first time. Coming home to the simplicity of a little girl happily inviting my old doll to her tea party table stabilized me. I leaned against the door frame and watched her happily serve more tea to my doll and her stuffed elephant, her little hands wrapped tenderly around her pink teapot.

“Mommy, would you like some tea?”

“Yes,” I said, crossing over to her and kneeling down, “I certainly would.” She gently poured imaginary tea into a cup in front of me and I blew gingerly on it to cool it down. I took a light sip and smiled at her. “It’s perfect.” Tomorrow, I would face the papers that sat in my bag in the kitchen. Tonight, I enjoyed imaginary tea with blonde curls and sing-song laughter.

*******

“Look, I did everything I needed to. I don’t know why this cheating bitch can’t be held responsible for her lack of participation in our marriage.” His voice always went up an octave when he got upset.

“Sir, we are here to divide the assets between the two of you. If we cannot find an agreement, you’re welcome to take your case to the court.” The mediator picked up her pencil again, “Now, as for the house.”

“The mortgage is solely in my name,” I said, calmly, not even looking at him. The mediator looked at me and then across the table at him.

“Sir, are you in agreement that she should keep the house?”

“No. It’s our house; I should get something out of it for all the years I had to put up with her neurotic tendencies.” I sighed. The more he yelled, the calmer I became. You’re doing the right thing. You need to get away from him.

“We’ll leave that for later, then. Are there any other assets?”

“Our two cars,” I answered before he could say anything.

“Yeah, I should get hers. It’s the newer one and needs less maintenance. I can’t afford a new car right now.” You can’t afford anything right now. The mediator looked at me.

“The car he drives is his grandmother’s car. I purchased my car two years ago. My name is the only name on the car.” The mediator sighed. 

“Miss, is there anything that his name is on?”

“No. All of our assets and liabilities are in my name because his credit is terrible and he never worked.”

“Why do you always have to attack me? It’s hard to find a job!” Keeping my mind in the room with the mediator and my soon-to-be-ex-husband became increasingly difficult. I saw my daughter’s tiny pink Crocs happily skipping down the path at the park, my doll lovingly hooked into her arms, her blonde, knotted hair bouncing.

“We’re going to see the turtles,” my little one sang as she skipped down the path. We rounded the bend to the small, secluded pond in the park. I sat on the bench while my daughter crouched close to the ground in the way that small children do and inspected a bug. My mind escaped to the cool breeze and the color in the sky as the sun began its descent. “Mommy,” her little voice brought me back. She stood next to me and grabbed my hand. “Do I have to go stay with Daddy this weekend? Meemaw’s house smells funny.” I picked her up and put her on my lap. 

“Yes, you need to go spend some time with Daddy.” I wrapped my arms around her and the doll and, instinctively, filled my nose with the scent of her hair. 

“Look,” he said loudly, bringing me back to the room, “All I want is what I’m entitled to. You don’t stay married for ten years and then lose everything after.”

“Sir, we’re trying to divide the assets and debt equitably. Since everything is in your wife’s –,”

“EX-WIFE,” he cut the mediator off abruptly, “because she can’t keep her legs shut, so I left her.” I looked at the mediator and caught the suppression of an eye roll. 

“Sir, any argument you want to make about the state of the marriage can be brought to the judge if we do not come to an agreement here.” She looked at her watch. “We will need to schedule another session. Does this same time next week work for both of you?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. I pulled out my phone to check my calendar.

“I’m sorry, I have a meeting at work at this time next week. Could we shift to 1:00 pm?” The mediator checked her calendar.

“Yes, I have that available. Sir, are you available?”

“Of course, I’ll just bend and flex to her every whim and will. It’s always about her anyways.” 

“Sir, are you available?”

“I said, ‘of course.’” He’s always available. The mediator marked her calendar and asked if we needed a card. I shook my head as I gathered my belongings, stood up, and headed for the door. In the lobby, he caught my arm. 

“What is wrong with you,” he hissed at me, “don’t you understand that you’re leaving me in a lurch? I don’t want to be living with my parents.”

“Please don’t.” I looked in his eyes for the first time since we stood in the living room over two months ago. He looked so angry. 

“When will you be by to drop her off,” he asked.

“She’s at school until 2:45. Do you want to pick her up there?”

“No, you need to bring her to me.” Of course.

“I’ll drop her off at 3:30.”

“Good. I get my time with her. You can’t take that away from me, too.” I turned to walk out the door, feeling empty. After so many years of trying to make things work, I didn’t want to fight with him anymore. 

When we got married, he hardly smiled. When I got the pictures from the photographer a few weeks later, I teased him for it. “You look like you’re at a funeral.” He shrugged and turned back to his video game.

Two years later, I brought home a pregnancy test. As I unpacked the bag on the desk next to the computer, he looked over from his video game and the test caught his eye. “Do we need this?”

“I’m a month late.” 

When the two pink lines appeared, he hardly smiled. “How are we going to afford this?”

“We will make it work,” I said, glowing. 

Three months later, I sat in the hospital room alone. The bleeding had finally stopped but the doctor wanted to keep me overnight for observation. The nurse who came in to check my vitals every hour kept giving me long looks of pity. I spent the time in between her checks curled in the bed crying for my lost baby. My husband met me at the hospital door the next morning. We hardly talked for weeks after that. He played his video games and I spent the hours I wasn’t at work curled in a chair, sliding in and out of sleep.

When the two pink lines appeared again, three years later, I didn’t even tell him. I waited for months. I snuck to doctor’s appointments during my lunch hours. Almost six months into my pregnancy, he put down his video game for the evening and slid his hand around my waist in bed. She kicked and he felt it. “What the fuck?”

The argument that ensued after that moment lasted most of the night. He accused me of sleeping around. Why else wouldn’t I tell him about the pregnancy? He wanted to know who it belonged to and didn’t believe me when I kept telling him the baby was his. I gave up and went to sleep in the guest bedroom. He didn’t talk to me for a month. I slept in the guest bedroom, holding my growing belly and feeling her strong kicks. It’s just you and me against the world, little one.

“I want a DNA test,” he said, finally, one morning while I packed my bag for work. He stood in the kitchen next to the coffee pot in his sweat pants. “I can’t believe you fucking cheated on me again.”

“I’m not starting this with you,” I replied, “I’ve never cheated on you. If you want a DNA test, you can find the money to get one.”

“How can I do that when I don’t have a job,” he yelled after me as I walked out the door.

I scheduled an induction two weeks past my due date. My husband dropped me off at the hospital the night before. “I’ll be here at 6:00 am tomorrow,” he said, as he pulled away. I checked myself in and the nurse settled me into prenatal, one room down from where I lay almost four years earlier, mourning the loss of my little one. 

“We’re going to start some medicine and put a monitor on your belly for the baby’s vital signs.” I suppressed the urge to jump when the nurse’s cold hands touched my belly to put on the monitor. “Honey, are you here alone?”

“My husband will be here tomorrow.” I looked away from her. I knew the look she gave me and the thought of having to shrug off yet another round of pity exhausted me. “He really doesn’t like hospitals.”

The next morning, they wheeled me down to Labor and Delivery at 7:00 am. I texted him with my room number. Around 8:00 am, while I sat on a ball, breathing through twinges, he sauntered into the room.

“Hey, beautiful.”

When she came into the world that afternoon, everything around me melted into the scenery except her. I held her to me and stared at her small face. I pushed my finger under her little hand and she wrapped her fingers around me. My entire world became hers.

*******

My cell phone on my desk rang and his number appeared on the screen. Even three months after finalizing the divorce, I cringed when I saw his number. “Hello,” I answered.

“Yeah, babe, I can’t take her tonight. Can you get her from school?”

“I’ll take care of it.” I hung up the phone and began to pack up my things. I picked up my office phone and dialed a few numbers. “Hey, I have to leave.”

“He bailed on her again, didn’t he?”

“I’ll see you Monday,” I said, avoiding her question.

When I pulled into the school parking lot fifteen minutes later, I smiled as she ran to the curb. I got out, walked around the car, and picked her up in a hug.

“Mommy, I made a kitty in art and she is beautiful like your doll.”

“What do you say we go somewhere special tomorrow?”

“Can we get ice cream?”

“Yeah, we can get ice cream.”

The next afternoon, after a morning of pancakes and playing Chutes and Ladders, I secured her into her car seat and nestled my doll in next to her. We stopped and got chicken nuggets on the way up to the mall. 

“Where are we going, Mommy?”

“It’s a surprise.”

When we pulled into the parking lot in front of the doll store, she gasped and squealed. I shut off the car, got out, went around, and helped her out. She carried my doll tightly in her arm as we walked across the parking lot, hand in hand. In the store, her eyes got wide as she saw all the different things they sold for my doll. 

“Mommy, can we get her a new dress?”

“Yeah, I think we can spring for a new dress for her today, but first, she needs some pampering.” We walked up to the bright pink “Spa Bar.” Doll-sized barber chairs sat at equal intervals down the bar and a few girls waited patiently while stylists primed, combed, and cleaned their dolls. A young woman called us forward from the “Wait Here” sign.

“Hello! What are we doing today?” My daughter plopped my doll on the counter in front of the young woman. “Oh my,” the young woman said, “she has been around a little while.”

“My mommy loved her before me so now she needs pampering!” The young woman and I both suppressed a laugh.

“I see that. Are we doing a full treatment today?” She looked at me and I shook my head. She settled my doll into the barber chair on the counter between us and set about cleaning my doll’s hands, feet, and face. Then she carefully combed out the knotted hair. “Which hairstyle would you like, sweetie?”

“Can you do the braid? Just like mine?” My daughter turned around to show the young woman her braided hair.

“Sure can!” Her fingers quickly moved through the doll’s hair and produced a braid. Then she handed the doll to my daughter and handed me a card for the checkout to scan.

“Thank you,” my daughter said as she bounced away to pick out a new dress. She picked out a bright orange shirt, a pair of jeans, and a pair of black doll boots. After paying for everything, she insisted on changing my doll immediately so we stood to the side of the registers and stripped the doll out of her stained dress. Once she fully dressed my doll, she held her up to check out her style. “Perfect,” she exclaimed, and then hugged my doll to her chest. I packed up the old dress and the packaging into the bag we got at the register and then we headed to get some ice cream before heading home.

When we pulled in the driveway, he stood there holding hands with a short, slender woman with deep-set eyes and curly hair. We got out of the car and she happily bounced over to him.

“Daddy, look at Mommy’s dolly! Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Yeah, cute,” he looked up at me, “where have you been? I’ve been here for almost a half-hour.”

“Why are you here,” I asked him. 

“Since I didn’t get to spend last night with her, I came to get her for tonight. I get my time with her.”

“Last night was your night. Tonight is my night,” I said with little emotion, knowing that didn’t matter to him. The woman stood next to him, looking at me with empty eyes.

“I still get my time with her,” he turned to my daughter, “want to go watch some movies?” My daughter looked up at him and then at me. She turned back to him and her shoulders dropped, “Yeah, Daddy.” I deflated. Why does he do this?

As they walked down the driveway, the woman he brought with him turned back to look at me. “I’ll pick her up tomorrow afternoon at 4:00 pm,” I called after them. He waved in acknowledgment. The woman turned back to walk the rest of the way down the driveway. My daughter’s doll’s glass eyes watched me over the little shoulder, one eye only partially open.