Deceased Estate

It was the first and last property my Mother bought when I was eight, and my sister Raven was nine.

‘Deceased Estate’, read the sign hammered into the front lawn at an angle.

“What does deceased estate mean?” I asked my mum, tilting my head as I read. She explained to me in seven-year-old language, “basically, it means we got a bargain for a dream home.”

From that moment on, whenever someone asked what I wanted to be when I grow up, I replied, “Realtor.”

Today's property should have sold weeks ago. Victorian style with stained glass windows, a wrap-around porch, double story complete with an elevator — a true dream home. The previous owners had even dug a hole for a pool but had run out of money before it could be finished. Even so, it's one of a kind. Liquidated two months ago, the banks just want their money back, and I’ve been put in charge of making that happen.

“Got good bones,” says the tubby man with ruddy cheeks as he walks about the property knocking on various walls and doors as he goes along.

I follow him into a bedroom where a pink dresser stands in the corner with a single tooth on top. 

“Does that come with the house?” he laughs. 

“For an extra price,” I answer.

It’s incredible how many people think humour can bring a price down.

“Well I’m not sure about the price,” he says. A squeaking noise comes from beneath his feet. “Not to mention the noise.” He bounces on the spot making the floorboard squeak again. Then he presses against one of the timber wall panels; it creaks too, then comes loose from the top, bowing slightly.

 “Here’s one for you, write this one down,” he says, pointing to the clipboard in my arm. “Loose panel. Should be another couple of grand off,” he adds, wobbling the panel back and forth.

“Well, unfortunately it’s not up to me. The bank has determined the price, sir,” I tell him.

Suddenly, the last two nails holding the panel in at the bottom pop loose, and it breaks free from the wall. A wave of Barbie doll heads comes pouring out from the cavity. Hundreds of them.

"What in the name…” the man stutters. 

I stare at the heads in disbelief. In all my years of selling houses,  I've never witnessed the uncovering of a Barbie tomb before.

“I think I'll pass on this one. Seems to me like some kind of voodoo has taken place here,” he says, backing out of the room.  

I lean down to take a closer look at the heads. Some have had their hair chopped off—others plucked out. Some have faces covered in biro or plasticine shoved into the head cavity—all of them mutilated in some way. I pick one up and sniff it to check if it still has that authentic Barbie smell. The fake ones smell like that toxic type of plastic you could get high from. I pull back more panels, looking around for bodies. I want to check their knees to make sure they bend, and click when they’re bent too far, but they’re nowhere to be found. I could take a guess at where they went.

I remember my first Barbie—Baywatch Barbie. Brand new, propped up in her box with that clear plastic window to keep her protected yet still visible for the journey home from the toy shop. Baywatch Barbie came with a red buoy, visor, binoculars and a dolphin that made noise. My sister Raven, already had a prized collection of Barbies; bead blast Barbie, Barbie blossom beauty, holiday Barbie, workout Barbie, Skipper, two Kens, two Kellys and Nibbles the horse. She wasn’t happy to see me with one she didn't own.

Raven and I were best friends up until then. The arrival of Baywatch Barbie in our home was the beginning of the end for us.

  “Why are you such a copycat? Barbies are my thing! Get your own thing,” she said.

She wanted a new Barbie, immediately, and spent the rest of the day lying on the couch repeating, “I want a Barbie, I want a Barbie, I want a Barbie,” hoping to wear Mum down. 

Raven divided the floor of the rumpus room with masking tape. 

“You stay on your side of the line,” she instructed me.

Before Baywatch Barbie, she would let me play with her. I could choose to be Ken or Kelly, and our games could last for hours. Now that I had my own Barbie, I had to play on my own.

On Raven's side of the tape, she had a bedroom, kitchen, garage, living room, gym, sunroom and horse stables. Each room was marked out with more masking tape and had all the furniture set up in each taped-out box.  I had a  beach made out of blue towels and a sun lounge made out of a mini cereal box. After an hour of making Baywatch Barbie look for dolphins with her binoculars and ride the waves on her buoy, I was bored.

“Can I please play with you, Raven?” I pleaded.

 "Only if you give me your Barbie," she replied.

It was tempting, but I wasn’t going to give her up that easily.  I needed a Ken, I needed a Kelly, I needed a change of clothes.

Over the next three weeks, I picked lavender from the garden, hung it upside down to dry,  and then filled it into little calico bags. I sold the bags to the neighbourhood as potpourri, for “inside your underwear drawer.”  Finally, I had earned enough to buy Secret Hearts Ken. He came with a holographic blazer that magically changed to hearts when you applied ice to it.

  Raven, who hadn’t been keeping an eye on what I was doing, was furious.

"A new Ken? Seriously? Didn’t I tell you to get your own thing?" she exclaimed.

A few days later, she asked me to show her how to dry lavender. 

“I’ve already done all the houses around here, you’ll have to go pretty far if you want to sell any,” I told her.

“Whatever,” she said, waving me off.

 I was happy for Raven to  door-knock the neighbourhoods; I was going to concentrate my efforts on selling at school—it would be the perfect opportunity before Mother’s day. 

Raven beat me to it.

On the Monday before Mother’s Day, she went to school with fifty bags of potpourri and sold every single one of them. Soon after, she was the proud owner of the Barbie camper van. Apart from my three friends, no one else was interested in buying my bags when I brought them to school the following day.

I was so angry that I chewed one of the feet of her holiday Barbie so that the rubber foot had to keep being hooked back over the white plastic spine inside her leg to stay on. 

"It was Mindy," I said, pointing to Mum's twelve-year-old chihuahua. 

"Mindy hates the taste of Barbies!” she yelled.

  She wanted revenge.

That night, she cut Baywatch Barbie’s hair into a bob. Everyone knows Barbies’  hair doesn't lie flat after it's been cut, so it looked like she was wearing a big pom-pom hat. 

"I thought you would like it," she smirked. "She looks more like you now." 

The next day,  when Mum took me to the nursing home to visit Gran, Edith—who was sitting next to us in the common room—overheard me telling the story about Raven cutting my Barbie's hair. 

"What's that? Barbies?" Edith yelled.

I looked to Mum,  hoping she'd answer. Talking to the old people always scared me, but I put on my brave face after Edith said I could have her Barbies. I wasn’t sure if her Barbies were real or imaginary, but I was hopeful.

“My daughter brings them, something for me to look at,” she says as we all walk to her room. Edith's room was a Barbie temple. It wasn’t the strangest thing I’d seen at the nursing home, lots of residents had unusual collections of things. 

“Choose as many as you want, just leave a few. Joni won’t be too happy if they’re all gone next time she comes.”

Mum only let me choose one, so I chose the best one: Barbie Dream Bride. Still in her box, with her dress pinned to the sides, so it was spread out and fluffy. She was perfect. 

"That's not fair!" Raven screamed when she saw it. "You can't just steal an old person's Barbie!"

 She ranted about it all night until eventually, she asked Mum if she could visit Gran. Mum knew exactly what Raven was thinking and said simply, "No." 

Not long after that, during school holidays, new neighbours moved in opposite our house. For a brief moment, Raven and I were getting along. We'd spent the morning doing 'hair wraps' in each other's hair and were now kneeling on Raven's bed, watching the new family unpack. 

We watched them carry in lamp stands and coffee tables and we guessed what was inside each box that was unloaded from the truck. Then we saw it. A large box labelled 'Barbies,' being carried inside by the father, followed by a girl that looked our age carrying the Barbie Dream House, brand new in its box. 

We both raced across the street to introduce ourselves. The girl, Emily, was an only child. According to my own research at the time, only children always had better toys and more of them, than kids with siblings, and Emily was no exception. Emily had thirty-nine Barbies, four wardrobes packed with clothing, swimsuits, sneakers, heels, hats, earrings and leg warmers. She had the camper van, the sports car,  the spa bath, the pool, all the furniture sets and accessories, and best of all the Barbie Dream house Mansion. It was bright pink with a wrap-around porch and battery operated elevator.  She showed us how it worked, Raven and I were in awe. 

We were begging Mum to buy it for us before we'd even walked through the door. 

“Raven has more Barbies than me, so I should have the Dream House,” I petitioned.

“I collected Barbies first, they’re my thing, I should have the Dream House,” Raven whined.

"I'm not buying two Barbie houses, girls," Mum said. "If you want it, you'll need to share it." 

We agreed, but we weren't happy about it. 

Two weeks later, Mum went out to collect the Dream House, leaving us to clean the rumpus room to make space for it. When we’d finished, Raven planned a roster for who got to use the house on which days.

“I get four days and you get three days a week because I’m older,” she explained as she held up the sheet of paper with ruled out, colour coded squares.

“That’s not fair,” I protested, “Mum said we had to share, it has to be equal!”

“Well it’s not my fault there are an odd number of days in the week!”

“Well, if you get more days, I get to use it first.” 

“No way!” she screamed.

By the time Mum came home, the rumpus was nothing less than a Barbie war zone. Heads had been torn off, legs and arms dismembered, hair cut, plucked out and covered in texta. 

“Are you ready, girls,” Mum called from the front door, “The Dream House is here,” she sang, carrying it into the rumpus to find us both in tears. 

“What’s happened here?” she gasped.

“It’s not a dream house anymore, Mum,” I told her through tears. “It’s a deceased estate.”